


If We Become Obsolete

by myfailsafe



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Aftermath of Violence, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Body Worship, Brainwashing, Comfort/Angst, Consent Happens, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sexual Content, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, Killing, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, Occasionally Out of Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Stucky - Freeform, Survival, Survival Training, Survivor Guilt, Violence, long chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9193223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfailsafe/pseuds/myfailsafe
Summary: War has taken America.  Steve and Bucky try to survive in the country the World left behind.





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. Do I know how it happened? I've never written a dystopian type of fiction and the need to write it hit me like a ton of bricks. The chapters are ridiculously long to start, but I'm hoping I can calm down and lighten up. I would appreciate any feedback possible, but mostly I hope y'all enjoy.  
> PLEASE GO THROUGH THE TAGS FOR WARNINGS

Steve couldn’t remember a time when he enjoyed the cold. The winter months brought death and sickness. The winter set in chills that soaked to your bones and made your teeth rattle until they ached. When the sky weeps and no cover is to be found, people shake until they’re no long among the living. Food is limited to what you had accrued during the warmer months and what you could barter for. Steve had seen murder for a small stick of jerky. He watched an entire community erupt over one pound of cured meat. Some years they would be forced to face piles of snow and surfaces covered in ice. The winters sorted out the thriving and the weak, the desperate and the desolate and the fighters from the prey. He hated the winters for the memories. Watching his mother take her final breath as his tears froze to his flushed cheeks. He remembered the building they had made a home in crumble after a harsh ice storm. The first time his lungs struggled against his wishes, it was cold. The first time he had been hurt – a nasty fall that split his chin– it had just begun to snow. When they came from the darkness under the streets, silent and hostile, it was cold. They had taken the last remaining thing Steve had and that had been Bucky. The winter seemed even harsher after that.

* * *

James was not a fan of the summer months. He longed for a little chill to whisper through the air, begging it to ease the harsh heat that carried humidity and desiccated throats. The scorching months always rolled through before anyone was ready. They had an unexpected early summer, and he had watched every crop he had precariously cared for wither. It was summer the first time he had ever passed out; he still wasn’t sure if it was from heat or dehydration. The first day of physical training had been on a sweltering day. The first time he had killed a human being, it had been a harsh summer night, and the man had pressed a knife to his throat.  
Today had been particularly stifling.  
It had been scorching, making his clothes cling uncomfortably to him, the sun blistering his already red skin. There were too many days of him scouting. The sweltering heat made him blink the sweat out of his eyes, stinging as they edged closer. When his eyes landed on him, clutching that small cup of liquid, James’ mouth dried with aching thirst. He took a long, torrid breath as he adjusted behind his weapon, squinting to focus down the scope of his rifle.  
It was the hottest day James could ever recall. It was the day he saw Steve again.


	2. Question Everything - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, meet James. James, meet Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this is long. I actually cut it in half and it's still too long, but I was having a lot of fun writing this. Any feedback is - as always - welcome. The chapters are going to fluctuate in length, but I honestly doubt another one will be as long as this. Next chapter will be posted on the 14th.

War had taken America.  
  
While most people were forced to live in slums or decaying cities as they tried to subsit, a select few remained in the world of ‘luxury’. The government prospered at the sacrifices of their people and ruled because of the decimation that they helped create and then nurtured for gain. While people were squatting in bombed out and mold ridden buildings, the men and women who continued to use a choke hold on their people, slept in fluffed beds in warm rooms. Soldiers were selected in an order that the people had yet to figure out. While some people worked to become a soldier, others were taken in by force. People sited brain washing and conditioning and even threats. Some speculated that the government had spies within the communities, watching the people to see who survived and burgeoned. Then, they would come and take those who triumphed over the life they were handed and forced them into submission.  
  
The government took total control of the people, and those who wanted to survive were subjected to do whatever was pushed on them. They worked hard labor rebuilding anything that was government controlled and barred from building anything that wasn’t sanctioned. Their own personal living conditions were falling apart and dangerous. They were given a certain amount of food every day, along with being permitted only so much drinking water. Their leader would tell them it was a generous amount, but they knew it was barely enough for them to live to serve. Only government permitted workers were allowed to work the fields and the farms. No regular person was trusted around the temptation of food. Only high ranking officers were permitted to work the water stations.  
  
The war started with a simple disagreement on what could make it a better place for everyone. What was once a hope for peace ended up being the fall of the country. Other countries turned their backs on America, and having nowhere to turn to, they fell in line with their bleak future.  
  
“Before all of this, we would celebrate America’s birthday every July fourth,” Sarah would say. “I think you were born today for a reason.”  
  
Steve would look up at his mother fondly, “Why?”  
  
“Because I think you’re going to grow up and give America its birthday back.”  
  
Steve was smaller than any other child he had come across, though it wasn’t many. They stayed in an out of bounds building that was a few miles out from the city limit. Everyone in their run down, illegal community knew Steve and Sarah. Sarah was the only Healer and Steve never left his mother’s side. It was there Steve had learned the lost profession of “Nursing”. Every week, Steve would stay with the rest of the kids while the adults took the four mile hike to the river and farm to collect food and water. There were few good days for him, where his lungs cooperated with him more, and he would sometimes be allowed to go play. Sometimes, when he had grown enough, he would be allowed to go along the treks to learn. He would walk his mother’s exact footsteps since he was nervous and scared. They wre always on high alert when they were away from their campgrounds. There were times they would have to hide from patrols and Steve would clutch his mother’s hand to his mouth. Yet on these trips was where he learned to farm. He learned to preserve food. He learned to harvest seeds for the next crop. He would watch them purify water and stored that in his memory, too. His mother taught him kindness and strength and love.  
  
Every night as they were curled together on the hard ground, her arms around him, she would tell him about America before its fall.  
  
History of America was also strictly forbidden and most anything that had information destroyed. Some books lived and were a precious thing among the Skyliners. People who lived in the compounds never dared to have something like that. She would tell him stories of the world that they had been cut off from. About things called continents and countries and places away from America. She would tell him stories of different languages and cultures and people. It always seemed like a fairytale to the hell they lived in.  
  
“What happened to those places?” Steve asked one night when his arrhythmia was keeping him from drifting to sleep.  
  
“I think they’re still out there.”  
  
“Why aren’t they helping us?”  
  
“Well, because then they’d end up like us. We were the lesson that taught the world to behave.”  
  
Steve had been taught to hide and blend in. Soldiers still randomly came out to the Skyliners to do checks and it was always random. They knew dissidents were out there.  
  
Once, some of the adults had been getting ready for their trek to the water and food and the children had been caught off guard as they played before having to stay in. The adults had been tortured in the middle of the cracked and haggard street. Those who refused to talk – which had been most of them – were shot point blank without remorse. Some spoke out about the coming revolt. Those people were killed slowly. Then there were the children. Some were taken, some were killed and the rest had to watch. Steve had to watch. His friends were shot without regard while others were dragged away. Steve was nine. His mother come back from a supply trade to half the group dead in the road, left as reminders.  
  
It was common place to move buildings. They would do it often to try and keep ahead of soldiers. After the culling that cut their group by more than half, they would always try to live spaced out to give the illusion that if they were caught, they could claim that they didn’t know about others. They would only come together with the blanket of night to cloak them.  
  
Life as Steve knew it was a constant of moving and surviving. It was a constant battle against his own body. Poor health and worse nourishment beat him down. His lungs wouldn’t work properly, his heart would have extra beats, and he was always tired before the other kids. He was always told how lucky he was his mother was a healer to be able to take care of him with how frail he seemed. Sometimes he would be bitter about those comments instead of grateful for his mother. Often, he told his mother how he wished he wasn’t sick at all. She would smile at him and ruffle his hair.  
  
“You’re alive, Steven. That’s what’s important.”  
  
If he wasn’t trying to survive himself, he was trying to survive the rest of the world. His world. This rundown, desolate city scape that was his only place. During the day he would learn about crops and maneuvers to get out of holds and how to walk without making a sound. He would watch the walls for shadows of soldiers and would watch for the dirt to kick up the air to signal someone approaching. He learned about hunting and fishing and farming. He would listen to the stories of people who had escaped from the main city. Or like his mom, had been banished, which they had apparently done quite often before just killing people off.  
  
Occasionally someone would wander in, trying desperately to get to the city to escapes the life outside the government shadow. Steve would always study these people the most. He would wonder what could push them so far that they would chase a nightmare like the city government compound.  
  
According to people leaving, the city was becoming worse than ever before. The banishing’s were about nonexistent. They were beginning to kill groups of people because it was easier. There were no more questions – just killing. People were starting to disappear as well. Many thought it was the governments way of supplementing their own army. Others thought they were slowly taking out the lower level of people. Steve could believe both.  
At night, when he was on watch or a bad day followed him to bed and held open his eyelids, he would practice medicine. He would wrap and rewrap his own appendages. He would stitch clothing. He would mix plants and smash them and make paste for itch relief or burn relief or whatever combination he needed. If they had managed to catch an animal, he would practice on whatever was left over of the carcass, his mom always guiding his shaking bloody hands in the right direction.  
  
No amount of practice could have prepared him for that cold night.  
  
It had been the coldest night of the year, and in all fourteen years of Steve’s life, the coldest he could recall period. They had managed to find a few houses clustered together on the outskirts of the city where the houses had gotten farther and farther apart. They hoped being so far away would grant them cover to build their fire to warm themselves. Even as the snow fell to hide their smoke, the smell was unmistakable. They didn’t think any better of it.  
  
They were desperate.  
  
“Going back for the cache in the Skyliners is a shorter trip than going to the river,” Sarah said, standing around a circle with some of the adults. The children were clustered in the other room where the fire burned, where they hoped they would be distracted enough to finish planning out this idea.  
  
“It can wait,” A man protested. “We can last.”  
  
Sarah shook her head, glancing at Steve with a grim look that was gone in a flash. “The snow. It’s just started. This is our time to have our tracks covered without being slowed down. We can’t wait for it to melt. We’ll be dead by then. We can’t risk taking the extra time to fully conceal our tracks, we can do it lightly with the snow fall. This is our only shot. It’s going to be a heavy snow, we’re past due.”  
  
The group seemed to consider this as Steve’s bright blue eyes danced around to take in all their thoughtful faces. He knew they’d agree with her. Weighing the options, it truly was the smarter move. It was a shorter trip, it was dark and the snow had yet to become heavy.  
  
“Only two or three people,” A man said. “We can’t send a parade.”  
  
Sarah nodded her agreement. “Three people. Two to carry, one to look out and do some coverage as needed until the snow falls harder, as a failsafe.”  
  
“I’ll be the look out.” Steve said, his insides burning with excitement. They had been talking about him going on bigger missions for months. His breathing was always too poor or he was too weak. Today as if it were fate, he was feeling better than he had in years.  
  
Sarah gave him one long, intense stare that she rarely used. He saw worry just touch her brow into a small crease before fading. Her lips were fighting not to turn down, but the man that had agreed with Sarah spoke first.  
  
“He’s at that age now. He should. He needs to learn the ropes…”  
  
His voice faded before he continued talking, but Steve knew the end of that sentence. He heard them say it many times.  
  
_In case something happens to us, they need to know how to do everything without us._  
  
Sarah finally nodded, her eyes sliding off of Steve’s face with a small pinch to her lips and addressed the man, “You need to stay.”  
  
The man nodded. It seemed like the two of them had become leaders of sorts. They were polar opposites nearly ninety-nine percent of the time. They balanced each other, challenged each other and butted heads just for their voices to be heard to insure their group survived.  
  
They also always tried to have one of them behind.  
  
She turned her face to one of the larger men in the group. “Keres, you’ll come with us.”  
  
The man nodded, his scraggly beard hiding most emotion on his face, but his eyes glanced at Steve with barely hidden worry. He was the strongest man in the entire bunch. He was tall and sturdy and full of muscle. He was the best person to have for a mission like this considering he could carry far more than anyone else. Steve knew though, this man did not want to wait around and try to protect Steve while the boy tried to make the cut.  
  
Sarah gave a stiff nod, “We leave in ten. Keres, we will meet at the old street line.”  
  
The group broke off. Most of the adults went back into the main room to be around the children and tend to the fire and huddle close together. Some went to watch posts around the house and around the outside perimeter. Steve followed his mother as they walked up the stairs to their supplies.  
  
Silently, his mother put together a small bag of medical things to help treat small wounds, slung a large knife to her hip and looked over a gun Steve could remember her getting as payment for a surgery to save a child. It was one of the four they had. She handed it over to Steve silently and before he could open his mouth to protest, she wrapped her arms around his bony little shoulders and squeezed.  
  
She pulled back, her hands still on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “You remember, the last shot is far more important than the first. Okay?”  
  
Steve felt his brow wrinkle at the confusion he felt at the weird statement.  
  
“But ma, you always said…”  
  
She pressed a kiss to his blond head of hair before looking back into his eyes, “Steven. Remember that for me, just in case. If everything fails, you remember that.”  
  
Steve gave an uncertain nod but repeated it back. “The last shot is far more important than the first.”  
  
She took a step back and took a calming breath. “Okay. Remember, two steps behind me and no more. If you have to cover tracks more, you tap my shoulder so we can slow. If you start having any trouble breathing…”  
  
“My lungs are fine, Ma.”  
  
She looked down the bridge of her nose, tipping his head forward and making Steve shut his mouth with a look.  
  
“I’ll tap your shoulder. Twice.”  
  
She relented with a nod, her face returning to the thoughtful leader from the stern mother.  
  
“We have to move fast. We need to get back before the snow hinders our pace. Pack a knife.”  
  
He took a knife from the top of a box, sliding it inside his boot and making sure it would slide from its cover making sure the transition was smooth. Sarah wrapped Steve in her arms one last time, kissing the top of his head again.  
  
“I love you, Steven. My baby boy.”  
  
Steve squeezed back, “Love you too, Ma.”  
  
\--**--**--  
  
Keres led the group, followed by Sarah and ended with Steve. Keres was scanning their path, his crossbow at the ready with a bolt in the slide. He wanted to bring a gun but with Sarah following him with a rifle and Steve coming in behind with a handgun, he had no choice. He couldn’t leave the group unarmed. Steve was practically walking either backwards or sideways, constantly checking over his shoulder and sweeping the large pine branch of their steps. It was exhausting. His lungs were burning uncomfortably and his arms ached with fatigue. His lower legs had started to go numb and he was having difficulty keeping up, constantly tripping over his own feet and distracting the other two. Keres slowed his steps, speaking over his shoulder.  
  
“A brave soldier admits the struggles so his fellow man can assist. He does not sacrifice the unit for his own selfish gain.”  
  
Steve reached forward, tapping his mother’s shoulder twice. They continued on but slower. They seemed more tense at the new pace but they stayed vigilant in the quiet darkness. It took an extra hour, but they soon found themselves in the eerie quiet of the Skyliners. They could see the glow in the distance of the government encampment for the city straight ahead just past the Skyliners. Keres turned his head just slightly, giving a small nod and then they were off towards there stash.  
  
They doubled their pace, leaving Steve to just drag the branch behind them and pray it would do the work. The pressed against the side of the building they needed to enter, Keres looking around the corner while Sarah and Steve quieted their breaths.  
  
Keres motioned to Steve and he set down the branch, he motioned again and the two went around him and rounded the corner. They entered through another hole in the wall, immediately finding the stairs and starting the accent. Keres would stay at the bottom until they reached the top, making sure no one had followed and no one could hear them. Sarah would be the first to come down to make sure the coast was clear. They would then make the journey back to camp following a different course, but this time they had two planned stops. Steve was already looking forward to the stopping points to rest.  
  
They paused at the top of every flight of stairs to strain their ears and listen. After a moment of silence they would climb once more and they repeated it ten times. At the top of the last flight of stairs, they found a hallway and followed the darkness, their hands pressed to the wall to their right and then followed the turn when it opened up. There was a separate room that had once been closed behind a door but now just had an open entry way. Sarah and Steve went to the far-right corner of the room and slowly began to move large chunks of broken building out of the way. They were working together to move a particularly large rock when they heard a startled yell. Steve’s breath hitched when he heard another and he could tell it was far away but still close. There was a scream of pain that was definitely Keres.  
  
“Put the rock down, Steve,” Sarah said with a harsh whisper, the two of them setting it down. Steve saw the outline of his mother as she swung the rifle over her shoulder and Steve stood to take the gun from the waistband of his pants.  
  
The two of them pressed their backs to the wall and looked to the entryway, listening to try to gauge the fight outside. They tried to discern how many people were outside. They tried to strain their ears for echoing footsteps in the building.  
  
Sarah turned her face to Steve, “We move, you stay close. Don’t stop-”  
  
There was a sudden _POP_ and a fizzle that sored through the air and Steve heard a clatter in the room. His mother grabbed his shirt in her hands and yanked him down and across her, trying to cover him with her body. There was a tiny pop before a bright light swept the room that burned his eyelids that he had managed to slam shut.  
  
He tried to blink away the white spots, his heart hammering in his chest to drown out the rest of the world, the only sensation was his mother’s body next to his. He could make out the outline of her body as she stood, rifle at the ready, but Steve knew she couldn’t see well. He clamored to stand with her, the handgun clutched in his trembling hands.  
  
Sarah fired a shot through the doorway and Steve extended his arms and set his shoulders as he aimed towards her shot.  
She fired two more shots before stepping forward and reached over to tap Steve to get him to follow her. They exited the room, Steve’s eyesight slowly restoring. He could see two lumps on the ground across the hallway, knowing those were the people his mother had shot. He couldn’t even register that his mother just killed someone.  
  
There was another crack of a shot and Steve went to aim where his mother’s rifle pointed, but turned to have her fall back into him.  
  
His mind screamed but his lips could form no words. She stumbled back into him, Steve’s hands coming to hold her up under her arms. One hand still clutched his gun and the other grabbed her shirt with a fierce grip.  
He raised his gun while struggling to keep her upright, his feet already stumbling back. He pulled the trigger to find only silence. His mother raised her rifle as Steve leaned into the doorway and she let off a shot as he tumbled over with her still in his grasp. She gasped in pain and Steve scrambled to come to face her. The room was still illuminated by the tech that had burned his eyes a moment before.  
  
Sarah coughed up a mouthful of blood making Steve’s eyes go wide. He tried to remember his training. He thought to all the things he learned. He remembered his mother’s gentle voice guiding him as her hands showed him. His brain tried to replace those moments with the bloody woman in front of him, her shirt already soaked through.  
  
Steve pulled his jacket over his head, not even noticing the shiver that raced to his body when the cold touched his exposed arms. He balled the jacket and pressed it to her stomach, fighting back when she cried out in pain and then he pressed down.  
  
_First, you must slow the bleeding. You can’t heal something that has bled out._  
  
Steve swallowed the bile in his throat, his frantic eyes finding his mother’s pale face. Had she always been so pale?  
  
_Assess the situation._  
  
She parted her lips as if to say something only to have another line of blood stream down her face.  
  
_Now, what can you do to help?_  
  
“I…I don’t know,” Steve said, his chest heaving in panic.  
  
_Comfort, in the bleakest moments, is still a great help._  
  
“M-Mom, it’s okay.” Steve said, his eyes blurring with tears. His throat was so tight he thought he’d stop breathing. “It’s okay.”  
  
Sarah’s eyebrows pulled together, her hand coming up to cradle Steve’s face, warm and wet with blood.  
  
“I’m okay.” He whispered. “You saved me. I’ll be okay, I promise.”  
  
_Now begins the hard work, Steven._  
  
Her face relaxed and her hand left his face, coming down to fold on top of his trembling hands that tried to hold her together. She laid her hand there, on top of his and smiled up at him.  
He swallowed, feeling the wet track of tears slide down his face. “It’s going to be okay, Ma. We’ll get you back to the camp and I’ll fix you up real good.” He was leaning over his mother, feeling around for the emergency kit she had packed. He looked back to her when she squeezed his hand and gaining his attention.  
  
Her lips formed words but no sound came out. Steve could read lips fine.  
  
“I love you, too, Ma. I’m gunna get you better. Don’t you worry, I’m going to take care of you like you took care of me.”  
  
The smile from her lips began to fade along with the light in her eyes. Steve’s mind was going blank. It showed him a memory of when he was five and Sarah had danced with him in their garden, the two of them covered in dirt. His mind shut off. It came alive, watching her chest heave as she tried to hang on. His mind saw blackness. His mind showed him a memory of Sarah laughing so hard she clutched her stomach. He had a memory of her hug. Of her smile. Of her.  
  
The heaving stopped. Her head dropped to the side. The life was gone from her eyes. From here.  
  
Steve was frozen in place, his one hand still inside the emergency pack and his fingers wrapped around bandages. His hand still pressed on his jacket shook her in panic.  
  
“Mom.” He croaked, shaking her harder, as if this would get her attention.  
  
_Tip the head back and expose the throat. Press your hands to their chest and do thirty compressions to their chest in rapid succession. Breathe into them two times. Repeat._  
  
Steve laced his hands together, pressing to the spot his mother had showed him and began the compressions, pumping up and down and losing his own breath in the process. He pulled in a long breath, reaching over and pinching her nose and breathing into her. His face was sticky with her blood that transferred over. He sucked in another breath and pressed it into her lungs. He righted himself, positioned his hands, and repeated.  
  
_Do not exceed…_  
  
He shook his head to ignore her next step. He would continue trying to have her live until he collapsed.  
  
He didn’t hear the soldier as he entered the room. The man had all the time in the world to take in the sight in front of him, coming forward and picking up the abandoned weapons. He shook his head at the pathetic attempt in front of him as this tiny boy tried to help this dead woman. There is no sympathy. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and gripped the hand gun in his hand. He lifted his leg and kicked out against Steve’s shoulder, causing him to tumble over himself and smack against the wall.  
  
Steve made to get up to cross to his mother, but the soldier was coming to stand in front of him, kicking out and connecting to Steve’s stomach and making him gasp. The solider kicked again, making Steve finally grunt out in pain and when Steve looked up with retaliation in his eyes, the soldier brought down his fist to his face.  
  
“Get up,” The soldier commanded, striking Steve again when he ignored the command. “GET UP!”  
  
Steve slowly got to his knees and the soldier assisted the process by grabbing a hand full of his hair and yanking him to his knees.  
  
The man pointed the gun at Steve’s face and the dead eyes of a dead boy stared down the barrel. The damned thing didn’t work and if it did, Steve would had pressed it to his own temple and fired the second his mother’s heart stopped beating because he couldn’t save her.  
  
The soldier pulled the trigger, his lips pulling into a harsh smile when the gun failed, his voice full of feigned shock. “Well I’ll be damned.”  
  
The soldier cocked back the chamber, having it resist a little and pulling the slide back and forth before having the bullet dislodge from the chamber. The soldier pressed the small piece of metal between his fingertips and rolled it in between his index finger and thumb.  
  
“Shit, this is old. No wonder it didn’t fire.”  
  
Seeming not appeased at all by the events of having Steve not react, he repeated the action. Having another bullet loaded in the chamber, Steve’s soul begging to be taken from this Earth and having it jam. One by one, second by second and breath by breath. Steve kept glancing up the barrel, wishing that the blackness would leak from it and wrap around his throat and take him from this world. While the soldier busied himself and grumbled at the worthless metal in his hands, Steve would mentally run through his mother’s death. He questioned every moment, every breath, every thought and decision in that small span of moments. He kept trying to tell himself it wasn’t happening and that it wasn’t true, but then his eyes would flick over to her limp form and her unfocused eyes and all that damn blood. His hands were still stained with her blood.  
  
The solider pulled him out of his misery, “Wouldn’t have done you much good now, would it?”  
  
Steve just looked on, waiting and willing for this man to just finally fucking kill him. Yet he was not done, not in the least.  
  
He turned his face to Sarah, his eyes glancing back at Steve and a smiling curling his lips again.  
  
“Oh, she was a pretty one.”  
  
Steve looked back to his mother, the bottomless nothing of the world trying to swallow him whole.  
  
“I bet she’s still warm,” He said with a cruel twist to his lips, he tapped the barrel of the gun to Steve’s cheek as a last nudge.  
  
The little sliver of sanity that Steve was clinging to was ripped from his grasp, his eyes flicking over from his mother. He shot up from his knees, bringing his palm up and jamming it against the man’s nose, feeling far too much relief from hearing the crack the contact made. Steve’s left hand pulled the knife from his boot and jammed the weapon in the stunned soldiers side, basking in his scream of pain. His hands scrambled with the soldiers, ripping the gun from his hands and turning it on the soldier as he collapsed, his fingers clamoring around the handle of the knife to try and remove the pain.  
  
It was a desperate move that was riding on a wish that clung to a prayer. It was impossible. The ammo was worthless. The soldier laughed in mock when Steve pressed the barrel to his forehead. He heaved a glob of spit right in  
Steve’s face, knowing the boy couldn’t do a thing. A broken child with a broken gun.  
  
“What are you going to do, Drifter? Everything you had is gone. I should have taken my time with every single one of you – especially your whore mother-”  
  
Steve grit his teeth and held in a scream as he pulled the trigger.  
  
Warmth sprayed his face and a copper taste pressed his tongue from his parted lips that opened in shock.  
  
A gaping hole stared back at him, the soldier dead.  
  
_The last shot is far more important than the first._  
  
He looked to his mother. Hoping that taking this soldier would have brought her back but knowing that was foolish. Hope didn’t exist anymore.  
  
She had known that some of the ammo was shit. He knew it. She wouldn’t have told him the last shot was more important otherwise. He was always being taught that the first shot – aimed straight and true – could turn the tides. She wanted him to keep firing until he had a shot. Why did the bullet that finally discharged have to end the soldier instead of save his mother?  
  
He took heavy steps to her lifeless body, tears coming down his face, warm and burning in the chill. His lower lip trembled, his chest heaved and his world collapsed in on itself all over again. He ran his fingers through her hair, like she always did to him as he’d drift off to sleep and then slipped them down to close her eyes. He bowed his head, swallowed his sorrow and tried to set to work.  
  
_Bury me where the sun can fine me. She had said. Next to the tomatoes. Plant me with the flowers so when you go to harvest I can watch over you._  
  
With his feet as heavy as his heart, he stumbled and shuffled to her body, collapsing to his hands and knees as he got to her. He struggled to stand as he bent over and reached under her arms to try and half-way lift her.  
  
He couldn’t carry her.  
  
He grunted as he lifted, moving his hands and wrapping under her arms and clinging to her shirt as she began slipping out of his poor grasp.  
  
He would try to drag her.  
  
When he was sure he had a grasp that would suffice, he shuffled his feet as he angled his back to be lined with the path to the door.  
  
He couldn’t leave her here.  
  
He aimed all his strength into step after step, mentally screaming at himself to step one foot back and then the other. When his grasp would slip and his fingers would ache he would adjust, trying to fight the fatigue as it wrapped itself around him. He had made ten steps if he was lucky, sweat beading on his forehead and his lungs burning harshly. It was becoming too hard to breathe.  
  
His weak heart and poor lungs ridiculed him as his body fought with every feeble attempt. His harsh breathing turned to pitiful whining that morphed into ragged sobs. It was the last thing his mother ever wanted. She didn’t want to be burned and released into the wind. She wanted to be in one place unlike how she was forced to always keep moving. She wanted to just simply stay. Steve was too weak to oblige. He strained to breathe properly, her back pressed to his chest with her full weight and her head tipped to the side. His stomach gave an uncomfortable churn.  
  
Steve let out a sob, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Mom, I’m so sorry. I…I’m sorry. I’ll bring back someone to help me. I’ll get you to the garden.”  
  
He paused, gently setting her down and resting her head gingerly on the ground with a tender hand. He kneeled next to her, dropped his head to her leg and clutched at her pants.  
  
“Please come back, Mom. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_.”  
  
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that for, but his body protested when he stood with stiff and cold joints. He glanced down at her and grimaced as he turned away. He would bring someone back when the snow cleared. They would help him bury her. The ground should be softer from the melt.  
  
He went to the water cache and got what he could to take back with him, which wasn’t much by any means. It was still something more than what they had.  
  
_Something is always better than nothing, Steven._  
  
He found Keres’ body just outside the main building, surrounded by six other soldiers. None of them – Keres included – ever stood a chance against the other. Steve didn’t mourn for him but was so very thankful for his sacrifice. His group just lost a leader and their strongest fighter and was given back their worst asset. The one person who slowed them down and was nothing but a burden, only kept because of Sarah, was the survivor coming home. It was a shit deal.  
  
He set out back to camp, the snow coming down heavy enough that he didn’t need to cover her tracks. Steve smelled the mess before he saw it. He smelt burning wood being carried on the wind as the snow tickled his face. He had run out of tears and wrapped himself in the bleakness of the rest of the world. Yet when he crested a hill, that was when he saw the half halo of red, orange and yellow. The billowing smoke was hard to make out in the weather conditions he was faced with but he could see it. A horrible black omen.  
  
He pushed his body, his arms quaking and his legs numb. He couldn’t pull in a full breath and his feet stepped down on the snow which muffled his steps. His worse fear was confirmed when he came around a corner and sided up with another house. He peaked his head around the corner, his eyes stinging from the heat. The soldiers were standing by idly, watching their handy work and joking lightly. A few soldiers were crowded around the flame that was Steve’s temporary stay, warming their hands on the fire and laughing at something. Steve retreated back to the cover of the house, dropping the water and crumbling to his knees.  
  
“This is the easiest clean up we’ve ever had to do,” One soldier chuckled.  
  
The other laughed back over the roar of the flame, “Burning them alive. Should have thought of this before.”  
  
Steve’s stomach lost its battle and he tried to wretch. He gagged on the bile that was all his stomach could spit up. A blackness was rimming his vision. A sadness was crushing his soul. The anger that had been swirling in him to beg for revenge was quashed by the harshness of despair.  
  
Steve didn’t even move when he heard the footfalls of several soldiers. He put his hands down into the snow in front of him as if bracing himself against the Earth and shut his eyes. He would find death and fate and curse them to their faces. He would bring them to their knees as they had to him.  
  
“Take him.”  
  
Steve didn’t bother looking up, or fight, or get up and run. He let them grab him underneath his arms and drag him off. He watched the fire burn as they pulled him along. He would remember this moment. He would take this moment and recreate it all for them. He would relish in their pleas and screams. He would remind them of his mother’s name. He would watch them all burn.

* * *

The soldiers took him to the Government compound.  
  
They threw him into a room with more people who had been taken, all young and scared. Steve was too numb to bother with emotions. They were lined up and asked to go into the Government Army to fight against the Rebellion. These rebels were threatening their community and their way of life, the told them. They had to be stopped, they had said, and they were the people who would do it. Those who refused or didn’t answer were beat. Steve was the only person who didn’t say anything. He watched everything pass by him. He saw boys and girls being led away as they pledged themselves to the Government and to aid them in their world views to lead their people. He barely registered the bite of words when someone would tell them they refused. That they were liars. That the Government didn’t care about them. He could hear the beatings as the cries and hits filled the air.  
  
He had lived as an illegal Drifter his entire life. They avoided the compounds and encampments whenever they came somewhere close. They dodged the patrolling soldiers to avoid going. He knew they noticed that he didn’t have an identifying number printed on his wrist. He wouldn’t show up in their databases. He was fresh to imprint on but he couldn’t care less. The cause was pointless.  
  
“Steven Grant Rogers.” A leading officer said as he stood in front of him. That had gotten enough of a reaction out of Steve to look at the man. “Your old camp gave up your name. They tried to barter your life for theirs…”  
  
He remembered always wanting to take these men down, one by one and change the world. To free the people and let them live. They had no right to push people around and take advantage of those who were just trying to survive.  
  
He hadn’t heard anything else they said to him and hadn’t bothered to reply and that was inexcusable.  
  
He lost count of the hits and the words as the pain took over. The emotional and physical pain was what he would drown in. Yet not getting a rise one way or another was more frustrating than anything it seemed.  
  
The slide of the gun cocked back, the barrel pointed towards his head, “Waste of my damn time.”  
  
Steve already felt dead inside, so he didn’t move when the soldier growled out his frustrations and then pressed the cold steel to his temple, making his head bend away.  
Another soldier stepped forward and if Steve remembers correctly, he’s in command. The soldier is staring at him with nothing but disgust as he shoves away the gun.  
  
“He wasted our time so we’ll waste his. Print him and put him on the street. He can suffer. He won’t last a week.”  
  
Someone grabbed onto the back of Steve’s shirt and nearly choked him as they yanked him up by the collar. They twisted his wrist uncomfortably hard and at a bad angle and used ink to etch in his skin on his wrist. It didn’t hurt enough to get a rise out of Steve.  
  
They dragged him out of the base, never giving him time for his feet to find purchase before crossing he threshold and unceremoniously shoving him into a pile of snow. It clung in clumps to his clothes and dropping down his shirt collar and stinging his skin to numbness. It snuck into his shoes and hugged his feet with a chill that ached. One soldier lifted a baton and struck down on Steve’s leg, making him cry out.  
  
“Move! Get out of my sight!”  
  
Steve looked towards the city limit where the sun was beginning to rise and pushed himself up off the snow, flinching instinctively when the soldier raised his hand with the weapon.  
  
Steve took one painful step, his foot dropping through the snow to his knee, and the lifted the next one. It was powder, nothing seemed to be clumping together to hold his weight, so he waded through the deep white cold one clambering step after the other. He managed to make his way from the soldiers and their strikes and their curses. That did nothing for him though, as he had no idea where to go or where to even start. He didn’t have his mother to help guide him or his group to point him where to go. For the first time in his life, Steve was helplessly and completely alone.  
  
He managed to find the border for the town that was lined with soldiers and turned away from the cluster of shanties and shacks knowing no one would invite him in.  
  
As he moved forward, looking for an empty space, he recalled a time when he was younger than he was now. Maybe five? They had gotten the first snow he could remember. Sarah used it as a lesson, teaching him how to build the snow into a small dome, compacting the frost into a hard shell and huddling inside. She showed him how to not make it big, so if it collapsed he had a chance of getting out. It wasn’t much, but it was the only chance he had.  
He ended the early morning shivering and numb under the shotty mound of snow, somehow letting exhaustion claim him. He woke the next morning when the noise of the world roused him. He needed to find a jacket somehow.  
  
He needed to get food. He needed to survive. He needed to get out.  
  
He followed the crowd of people every day. He learned about rations and how every person would get them at the beginning of every day. The line would last hours and the reward was usually poor. He would wonder the limits all day, trying to move to stay warm but wanting to stay still to save energy. He managed to get a jacket his third day in. A man had been beaten to death by soldiers right in front of Steve. They had tossed his clothing and shoes to the witnesses and let them fight over them. It cost Steve a bloody lip and a broken rib, but it was worth it. He learned what he could about the place he was now stuck in. He tried to look for a way out. An escape of any means. He could survive outside this place, but inside seemed impossible. He could see the Skyliners every day as they towered over them in the short distance. They seemed to call him and harass him at the same time. They were a towering reminder of what he had lost and had been forced to leave behind.  
  
It had been over a week now. He was still trying to keep his measly shelter intact and failing miserably. This morning he had been woken by the cold wetness that had dripped on his face and soaked his shirt. He slipped out and made his way to the ration line, trying to face the sun in hopes he would dry quicker.  
  
He stood behind a teen his age. He had deep brown hair tucked back into a low pulled pony-tail, a few scraggly pieces of hair hanging loose in his face. His smile was a little cocky and his voice carried more than the others around Steve. He seemed to be enjoying himself as he joked with a group of people who were in line with him. One by one those in the group held out their wrists as they approached the soldiers who were on ration duty today.  
  
“James Buchanan Barnes.” The teen said, flipping his wrist up.  
  
The soldier handed over the rations and waved him on. James did not move. The solider waved him on again, his eyes glaring at the teen as he still didn’t move. Steve knew why. He saw the group one by one walk off with the same pack of rations while James had been handed one that was noticeably lighter.  
  
“You shorted me,” James had said quietly, still refusing to move.  
  
The soldier didn’t seem to appreciate being talked to and questioned and immediately cocked his hand back and landed a hit on this kids face. The soldier waited a beat before extracting a baton that Steve noticed they favored and  
striking this already downed kid in the head. The blood was instant. Steve’s nobility seemed to wake back up.  
  
“Hey!” He took a step forward. Another solider who had stood by as he watched the altercation didn’t hesitate before hitting Steve for speaking out of line.  
  
“No rations for this one,” The soldier stated, drawing his leg back and kicking Steve in the stomach, making him groan, the pain connecting to his busted rib.  
  
The other soldier retrieved his gun from his hip, pointing it to the boys. “Move. Now.”  
  
Steve stumbled up and over to the left and away from the soldiers, holding himself up against one of the housing buildings for soldiers. The other teen stumbled, never properly righting himself as he scrambled to grab his rations and get out of the way. He managed to get next to Steve who was checking his lip with a grimace.  
  
The teen stood, eyeing Steve with blood tricking down his face. He was practically glaring.  
  
“You’re either dumb or brave and there is a pretty thin line between those two.”  
  
Steve scoffed, touching his fingers to his lips and pulling away to find a large blot of blood. He wasn’t great with stitching himself but he was betting it needed to be done. That solider hit harder than anything Steve ever experienced.  
  
“Well, I got you out of there with your rations, so I’m going to go with the lesser of two evils.” Steve muttered, eyeing the boys cut. He’d need to get something pressed to it since the head tended to bleed more. He reached in his back pocket, pulling out the folded cloth he had found earlier in the week and holding it out between them.  
  
“Press it to your head if you wanna stay upright.”  
  
James – if Steve had heard him correctly – gave him a funny look, but still took the cloth and did as instructed.  
  
“If you can get em, you need stitches,” Steve muttered, turning on his heel and began making his way back to the small mound of snow that was slowly melting away. It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it was something to put his back against and keep his eyes on the entrance. He still needed to figure out what he would do when it was gone.  
  
“Hey, hey, wait. You new or something? I’ve never seen you around and ain’t no one taking a beating around here for shit rations. And, well, I don’t know you.”  
  
Steve pressed his sleeve to hold to his lip, turning and glancing at James, “Yeah.”  
  
“You know how to do stitches?”  
  
Steve nodded and the teen pursed his lips, seeming to think to himself for a moment. Steve knew when he was about to be used and he was ready to walk away and try to fight through the pain of his lip to try to get some rest.  
  
Hopefully if he slept he could ignore his hunger.  
  
“You got a place to sleep?” James asked, looking suspicious.  
  
Steve shook his head, “Not really.”  
  
James gave one small nod, turned to look at the rising sun and squint at it like it would give him the answers.  
  
“I’ll make you a deal. You stitch this and I’ll get you a place to sleep.”  
  
James had taken Steve back to a tiny little shithole on the other side of town. He had made Steve wait outside and he could hear James shuffling around and rummaging. He had appeared with a rather dull needle and something akin to the stitches he had been taught to use made mainly from animal intestines.  
  
“Come on, I gotta make some trades to get you a spot.”  
  
Steve frowned, “You’ll pass out from the wound first.”  
  
“Well…” James stopped, nibbling on his bottom lip in thought. Deals usually worked in a sense that it would be tit for tat in pieces. Not take it all at once and hope the other person reciprocated. He could have Steve stich him up and then be on his way. He could.  
  
“It’s fine…” Steve muttered, still with that dead look in his eyes James had noticed. The reason he ended up in the inner city was probably behind those defeated eyes. This kid could get fucked over ten different ways from Sunday and it wouldn’t matter. His gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought. James had been taken advantage of. He had learned everything the hard way. James shook himself out of his thoughts. He would trade properly with this kid, get him a spot for a few nights and be done with it. If he was feeling generous, he’d managed to get some type of food thrown in.  
  
“Stitch me up and then we’ll get moving,” James said. He nodded his head towards the doorway and led them in.  
  
The process wasn’t pretty and sure as hell hurt. More than once James had said he’d rather bleed the fuck out. More than once he was woozy when Steve would pull back and his hands were red. Yet seven stitches later, it was done. Steve even managed to tie the rag to James’ head before leaning back and staring down at his hands with a frown. James had dragged him around the city as he made trade after trade, finally settling at a small shack not too far from him, trading a nice looking pair of laces for a few weeks worth of somewhere to sleep and some crackers. James had told him he couldn’t promise it would be safe, but it was better than the melting snow heap Steve had claimed.  
  
“Thanks for the patch job, Punk.”  
  
“Thanks for the roof, Jerk.”  
  
That was how it somehow began.  
  
It felt to Steve like they would drift towards each other somehow, every day or every other. They’d find each other in the rations line or Steve would run into him as he wandered the city bounds as he tried to get acquainted. It had first become a habit to look for each other and soon, quiet flawlessly, blended into looking forward to seeing each other.  
  
Steve learned one rough afternoon that James usually went by Bucky. Bucky somehow managed to have Steve living with him within weeks. His excuse was the missing people. That one day the guy Bucky had put Steve with went missing like so many others. Like too many people. The disappearances had become more frequent and more brazen. Day by day, step by step and breath by breath, they learned about each other, grew closer, and inevitably became inseparable. Maybe it was to have someone watching their back. Maybe it was because they weren’t lonely anymore. Whatever it was, the comfort they found worked for them.  
  
So it flowed and grew.  
  
Day to weeks to months to years.  
  
It was no longer Steve. It was no longer Bucky.  
  
It was always Steve _and_ Bucky.  
  
It was rare there was one without the other, side by side, but it did happen.  
  
It was amazing how they had come from something of a family, to losing that – which was all they had – to losing everything and finally finding each other. It was astonishing how much one sole person could mean to you when they were all you had. They worked with, adapted to and evolved around each other. Bucky taught Steve defense tactics and concealment techniques. Steve taught Bucky how to sew up a wound and make ointment to help the recovery. Steve was always up before the sun and if Bucky managed to sleep he only woke when the light began to beat his face. Bucky had the unfortunate job of figuring out that Steve had a lot of health problems and of course the winter and summer months were the worst on him. Steve began to notice the actual Bucky. The tough as nails but a gentle heart that he constantly hid. He would rarely sleep, often trying to avoid telling Steve why. Steve would notice when Bucky would get lost in thought, his brow crinkling and his lips pulling down and his eyes growing flat. Sometimes he would go hours and hours without saying a word. His mother had taught Steve about depression when he was learning to read the medical books. While the two dealt with day to day trauma, they never actively pursued the past. They both knew they each had a family before and now they didn’t and that seemed to be enough.  
Bucky would notice Steve’s face soften at the sight of a mom and son. He would watch the hopeful spark in his eyes when he would hear the name _Sarah_. The nights Steve would say the name in his sleep began to make more and more sense.  
  
Bucky’s face would just barely draw up when he would see young girls skipping along, or his eyes would turn down to the ground or lose focus when it would pass over a clustered family. When he would see a soldier, it was a special kind of hate that would pass over his face and bury in his eyes to try and seep into his soul. One thing Steve couldn’t ignore was Bucky was not big on people touching him. More like if he wasn’t ready for it or prepared for it, he would recoil or jump or wince. Steve would notice Bucky blanch when they would occasionally bump shoulders or arms. Yet there were times Bucky would steer him by grabbing his shoulders behind him and gently push Steve through a crowd. There were times when Bucky would toss an arm around Steve’s bony shoulders. Steve could recount times when Bucky rubbed small circles on his back on nights where his breath was short. There were a few rare times when Bucky had pulled him in for a hug or to hold him after a particularly rough time – like the first time Steve found Bucky crying. Bucky had been on the wrong end of too many different hands in too many forms, Steve realized.  
  
They never had to talk about it because they simply learned by watching and listening. It was a special type of correlation between two souls to know one another so intimately and unconditionally.  
  
Bucky did most things during the day when he could properly see the faces of those who he was talking to. He knew every face of every soldier to ever work in their city. He could recognize the ones who were traveling despite their best try to blend in. Often times, he could spot the soldiers trying to pass as one of them, but he knew he missed those from time to time. Typically during the day he stuck with Steve and they did what they had to do to make it through another one. Boiled shitty water and lined up for daily rations. Some days – though as rarely as possible – they would split up. Bucky tried his best to keep good ties with people he came across that posed no threat. Over the years he accumulated items that might be no use for him but sometimes another person might be looking for. Their town had a series of means of communication that they did their best to keep hidden. Hidden messages and secret words that alerted someone to something, always keeping an eye on those around them. Bucky had managed to get his hands on children shoes a few months ago and stashed them in one of the many places he had around the city. Of course, Steve knew about them, where each one was and what they all held.  
  
Yet when Bucky went to barter a trade with someone whom he wasn’t the closest with, he would leave Steve. This time it was a new person all together. They had come with reputable word of mouth by other people Bucky had done business with, but it didn’t make him any less leery. Apparently, he was meeting a woman whose kid was running around barefoot. Bucky had been there and done that a lot of his life and he knew the pain. The bottom of his feet were full of scars and callouses. He wasn’t going on sympathy, though. This woman apparently had a metal bottle to trade. They were nearly as prized as food and apparently she was willing to part with it to help her child. Of course, when Steve had heard he went right to Bucky. Him and his bleeding heart. Bucky had been mulling over the thought for a few days at that point. He had found a message at a gathering point near the bridge into the heart of the city where the governing council of their city lived. People would always cluster there to get rations and leave hidden messages. Steve had spotted the trade message while standing with Bucky earlier in the week and yesterday he had finally written back. This morning he stood before the reply, written in a language many swore they didn’t know, and made his way to grab the shoes.  
  
It was busy as the street flooded with people. Some were getting ready to do grunt work for the governing council; run the cremation fires, help the street guards ready for the day, and the lucky few who ran the government kitchens. Some were rushing to get to the ration lines and others were getting ready to make the mile long walk to the river for water under government supervision of course. Someone had something they had to do to survive.  
Bucky was making his way down a side street to try and avoid the larger of the crowds while he moved towards his stash spot. This area was typically void of most guards, just a few unlucky new ones who were thrown to the most boring patrol possible.  
  
Yet as he turned a corner to head out of sight and grab the shoes, he turned into six patrols. He knew he hesitated when all the heads turned toward him. He should have kept it casual. You hesitated which makes you over think which makes you an easy target. You encountered guards every single day multiple times a day, so nothing should be different.  
  
One raised his hand to grab Bucky’s attention and he stopped as he was motioned to. Typically, if you just did what they asked, answered their questions, you were good to be on your way.  
  
Typically.  
  
“Name and identifier.”  
  
Bucky rolled up the sleeve of his beat-up jacket, the chill causing bumps to rise along his forearm. He flipped it over to the number printed across his wrist.  
  
“James Buchanan Barnes.”  
  
Bucky watched them carefully and saw two officers in the back exchange a quick glance.  
  
“What duty are you reporting to?”  
  
“Rations.”  
  
“Why aren’t you on the main road?” Another asked.  
  
“Too crowded, wanted to try and get there faster.” Bucky recited these answers in his head so many times that the answers rolled off his tongue.  
  
“You’re getting close to the city limit. Says here in your record you’re a flight risk.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes flicked up to the man who was glancing at the screen on his wrist. Those damn things fed them all the information they ever needed on any person in the entire country.  
  
Bucky was surprised though, and a little weary. He hadn’t tried to blatantly try to flee since he was a kid and the soldiers killed his parents. He had been stopped many times since then, and a few years ago they had stopped labeling him a flight risk. They had just assumed he was beaten into submission when in reality he had just simply found someone worth staying and fighting for.  
  
“I’ll head to the main road,” Bucky said, tugging his sleeve down and trying to turn, but the soldier caught his arm in a tight grasp.  
  
“You were not dismissed, Barnes.”  
  
He pressed his lips together to stop himself from saying something smart that would get him in trouble.  
  
“Something to hide?”  
  
“No,” Bucky said through clinched teeth. He already knew what was coming.  
  
“Hands on top of your head, feet apart,” The first soldier said, spinning Bucky around and grabbing at his wrist to shove his hands to his hair.  
  
Bucky winced at the sharp pain the shot up his arm but refused to talk back or make a sound to draw attention to the discomfort. They’d exploit it, use it and make him regret it.  
  
The soldier kicked his feet wider apart almost causing him to pitch forward, which was used to the soldier’s advantage. He pushed Bucky’s face against the wall that had just been on Bucky’s side, and he tasted blood where his teeth had cut his mouth.  
  
_Don’t struggle_ , he thought _. It will make it worse_.  
  
Bucky stifled a noise of disgust when he felt the man’s hand begin to pat him down. He hated being touched by the street guards. They had a habit of lingering with their touches and straying. He felt one knife be pulled from the waistband of his pants.  
  
“Well, that’s not good. Weapons are banned,” The soldier chastised in a tone that sounded as if he was enjoying himself.  
  
His voice lowered to a volume only Bucky could hear as the man pressed against him, forcing his body completely against the stone and making his face grind roughly against it, scraping his cheek. He felt the man press his body harder against his and then his hand slip against his ass cheek. Bucky shut his eyes and tried to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe?  
  
“I bet you’re real pretty without clothes and your ass in the air, begging for it.”  
  
He couldn’t repress the repulsed shiver that made its way down his body and causing his stomach to tilt to the point he felt bile rise in his throat. The soldier gave a breathy chuckle in his ear, still taking his time as he cupped his ass and fondled like he owned him.  
  
“Does that get you excited? I bet that little blond boy you run around with is even better. He likes to beg. You know, when I did this to him last week, he nearly cried.”  
  
Bucky’s whole body tensed and he immediately saw red. The idea of anyone touching Steve, with him wanting them to stop, and having absolutely no way to stop it made him furious. Bucky knew what that was like and he had always hoped it would never happen to Steve. He should have known better. But when did it happen? Why did it have to be Steve? Why didn’t Steve tell him?  
  
Bucky flinched violently when he felt the strangers fingers graze his dick through his pants, which caused the soldier to ram his elbow into Bucky’s back.  
  
“I wouldn’t move if I were you. It won’t end well.”  
  
When Bucky felt the press of the man’s erection against his ass and he couldn’t stand it any longer. He twisted his wrist, pushed out where the man’s fingers connected, and turned at the hips. When he felt his hand free he jerked his elbow back and felt a sliver of satisfaction when he made contact. That satisfaction only lasted until a fist connected with his face.

* * *

When Bucky rounded the corner he was still trying to catch his breath, but he never had time to do that. He needed to get Steve and find a new spot to sleep that night. The soldiers would be looking for him. He was lucky he was fast, but he had to keep ahead of them until they moved on to their next victim. Bucky needed to rest his aching body and clean up his cuts if they had time and he doubted that. He needed some type of wrapping around his wrist and his ankle, but they’d never manage.  
  
He ducked under a falling beam that was supported against some crumbling structure and clamored over large parts of the broken building. He shuffled through a tight spot where two edifices had been unlucky enough to fall against each other. He climbed through a place where a window had once been and froze. He heard voices talking. Being on the edge of the slums were dangerous enough; all the usual street crawlers were there, but the robbing drifters usually came and went in this area, too. It just so happened to be where one of their meeting places were. It was Friday, which meant if one of them didn’t show up at sundown, they would come here. The first thought through Bucky’s mind was that someone had followed Steve here, Steve found someone, or worse even – Steve brought someone. It had only happened a few times before, but Bucky had to have the hardest conversations with Steve trying to explain why they couldn’t take in another mouth to feed. Bucky could never stay mad at him with his want to help, but with more and more people going missing it made Bucky suspicious of everyone.  
  
He took light footsteps, muffling the crunching beneath his boots. He pulled up with his back to a wall on the other side of the two unsuspecting guys, sliding his knife out of his boot and gripping the handle tightly. Bucky felt his heart sink as he heard Steve talking away joyously. There was no doubt that Steve had brought this guy here, his grip loosened on his knife.  
  
“They’re always talking about how they’re short on rations,” The guy commented.  
  
“Which is a lie.” Steve said back. Bucky could picture the scowl on his face.  
  
“It’s been a long time since they gave us bread. I’m excited. I could eat the whole thing now, I swear.”  
  
“Wait…you got bread?” Steve said.  
  
Bucky’s heart fell.  
  
“Yeah, we all did.”  
  
Bucky went from his heart feeling for Steve to suspicious. There were times the soldiers shorted you on your rations – definitely, but Steve always knew when he got stiffed. It wasn’t hard to tell when others were getting what you should have gotten. It had been a long time since that had happened after a spike in murders ripped through the streets and the government got sick of cleaning it up.  
  
“Shit, you get ripped off?”  
  
“I-I guess I did.” Steve said with the best nonchalant voice he could muster. It had never fooled Bucky and apparently didn’t fool this kid either.  
  
There was a tense moment of silence before Bucky heard boots shuffling against the floor, the crunching of rubble grinding against the concreate.  
  
“Wait…you’re kidding.”?  
  
Bucky tensed, turning his head to listen more intently. Something told him he knew this voice talking to Steve. He had heard it before.  
  
“I mean, didn’t you say you had a friend with you? We can split it.”  
  
“I couldn’t. I can’t trade anything. I don’t have anything.”  
  
“You can have it.”  
  
“I-I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“You can have this part to split with your friend.” There was the tiniest of tearing noises, and Bucky knew he was ripping apart the bread. Bucky’s lips parted when the face of the teen talking rushed to him with sudden memory and harsh clarity.  
  
One of the first things you learn when there isn’t enough food for everyone, when you’re constantly in a food shortage and people are literally dying because of it: get what you can. You never give anything away, you never “donate” it to someone who needs it more than you because everyone needs it as badly as the next. You get nothing out of sharing except fucking yourself over. Bucky had put his life on the line several times to fight for the small scraps of food that he had. He had watched killings and fights and verbal warfare over the tiniest amounts of substance. This was a hoax. This wasn’t happening – it couldn’t be. This was a fucking set up.  
  
Bucky adjusted his grip on his knife, settled on the balls of his feet and rounded the corner in a quick motion. He was hoping his ears had placed them where he had imagined them being. If he had followed their footfalls and voices correctly and judged the distance from their voices properly, Bucky should be able to come up just behind this mystery guy before he could react. He was right. He didn’t bother glancing at Steve to make sure he was okay, to make sure he wasn’t eating the bread. The sinking feeling in his gut was turning into nausea as he wrapped his arm around this man’s arms and mid-section, pressing his perfectly gripped knife against his throat.  
  
“It’s funny seeing you around here,” Bucky said, practically growling in his ear with barely contained fury. He ignored the ache in his wrist as it protested the angle.  
  
The man tried to relax in his arms to show some semblance of indifference, but Bucky pressed his knife to his skin enough to make him stiffen again. He shut down the feelings of disgust at touching this kid.  
  
“Buck, it’s okay,” Steve said, raising the bread. “He’s one of us. Real kind, though I’m not sure how kind after this…”  
  
“He isn’t one of us.” Bucky said, looking across to Steve. The sun had been setting and the light was fading fast. The chill was turning to a biting cold, making his breath ghost in the air. He could barely make out Steve’s eyes, but his body language told Bucky he was listening.  
  
Bucky wanted to yell at Steve about how he was told not to trust anyone, to not bring anyone around their spots and how he should have his guard up. He wanted to curse him. In all reality he was just content with him being okay.  
  
He was relived he was here on time.  
  
Steve reached out to placate him, “Don’t hurt him.”  
  
“Calm down,” The kid said gently.  
  
“This idiot was trying to _poison us_. _You_.” Bucky looked to Steve, “I will not.”  
  
Steve let his hands drop, his face pulling. Bucky couldn’t tell through the dim lights what his face was showing, but Bucky bet it wasn’t good.  
  
“Buck…that’s insane.”  
  
“You should listen to your friend,” The kid said gently.  
  
Bucky pressed harder and heard the boy gasp, “Don’t fucking play me. I know what the shit you are.”  
  
“James,” Steve said harshly.  
  
“Fine. How about this? Take a fucking bite, asshole. Show him. Go on. I know, you know, but he doesn’t. So you can just show him.”  
  
Bucky watched as Steve shifted on his feet and his body language told Bucky he was calming down. He must have found the request sensible. Bucky’s arm that was wrapped around the guy felt him tense, and Bucky knew he had been right. He’d seen this piece of shit plenty of times to know it.  
  
“You won’t get away with slicing open my throat. The patrols, they’ll find me, then you.”  
  
Bucky let out a sharp laugh, “Another mistake there,. Patrols don’t give a shit about street garbage dying off. Less to look after, less to feed, and always less to worry about. Only if there is a mass die out, because then that’s too much work. Right? They wouldn’t look for anything. But one of their own… they’d look for the killer of one of their own.”  
  
Steve felt his lips part in shock. Once again, Bucky was thinking so many steps ahead while he had his head in the clouds. Steve tentatively reached out, pressing the small, ripped loaf to the boy’s lips.  
“I’m not eating that,” He snapped, turning his head away.  
  
“Grab his nose, Steve.”  
  
“I’d rather choke,” The boy growled. He couldn’t make a scene, couldn’t make a disturbance. He would put everything at risk that needed to happen if he did. He had specific orders. They wanted the boy with the knife more than him. But he wanted to live. How was his life, the life of a dedicated soldier, less important that some gutter-runner?  
  
Bucky shifted his feet, planting them so he was an immovable object, “Perfect. Because it is either poison or asphyxiation. You can choke on your own fucking blood because I am not afraid to leave those bastards a message. Which is your preference?”  
  
Steve felt himself go numb and his face shift to a hard, stone mask. He reached forward, while Bucky in one fluid motion, grabbed the boy’s arms and dropped his knife. Steve pinched the teen’s nose as the boy thrashed.  
  
“Space,” Bucky panted out and Steve took a step back.  
  
Bucky lifted him, twisted his hips and slammed the kid on the ground, watching with some sort of satisfaction as his mouth bobbed open and closed. He’d knock the wind out of him. He straddled his midsection and felt Steve flop down on the guy’s legs. Bucky pinned his arms under his knees and leaned forward. A small trickle of blood had made its way down the guy’s throat and Bucky wished it had been a fountain.  
He reached behind his back and deftly Steve handed over the bread. Steve leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s back and grabbed at the boy’s wrists. He nodded against Bucky’s back and leaned back, pulling so this stranger couldn’t move his arms.  
  
Steve was jostled around while the boy tried to fight them off. He coughed, trying to spit out the bread. Bucky resorted to shoving it in his mouth as he pressed against his jaw harshly, clamping that hand over his mouth and pinching his nose shut.  
  
When he would try to make some sort of noise, Bucky would go from squeezing his nose to squeezing his throat.  
  
He snarled, “Swallow the bread or choke to death.”  
  
It was a funny thing, that in the face of death itself with nowhere to run, how much a man would fight. Yet Bucky, with all his fear and anger swirling inside of him, would make sure this boy met his maker. A braver man would have chosen to go into a darkness of suffocation before the pain of poison. James was sure this child feared having his air taken from him. Each time his eyes would roll back, so close to the brink of blacking out, he’d swallow and Bucky would feel his throat bob under his hand and he’d grant him air.  
  
When the last piece went down his throat, with tears streaming down the boy’s face, Bucky leaned in, “How does it feel to have your choices made for you, Government trash?”  
  
Bucky and Steve rose at the same time and came to stand together. Bucky glanced briefly at Steve and was a bit frightened noticing Steve hadn’t shed a tear, didn’t display emotion, only had a dead stare straight ahead for this unknown boy.  
  
Bucky inched closer to his side and they watched, silently, what this poison would have done to them. Bucky clenched his fists when he saw what was a second away from being Steve’s untimely moment.  
As the boy retched up mouthful after mouthful of blood they watched as he fell weak and collapsed in his own vomit, and not wanting to suffocate to death moments before, found himself too weak to move and succumbed to his fear anyway.  
  
Bucky slipped his hand around Steve’s, gave it a small tug, and the two of them grabbed their pathetic stashes in silence. They didn’t need to discuss how they couldn’t stay here and this place was now compromised, it was a given and it happened often.  
  
Now that Steve was close enough to see in the poor lightening, he saw the condition Bucky was in. It wasn’t the first time he had come home with his blood on him while limping and trying to calm a cut or scrape. This time looked like it was more than one person who beat Bucky. He knew it wasn’t whomever Bucky went to make a trade with, it couldn’t have been. Bucky had to have run into soldiers. It was the reason he was late. He wouldn’t have hesitated to kill some stranger threatening their livelihood. He’d have to fight and run if it were soldiers.  
  
Steve was pulling a few stashes from behind a stone slab, thinking of what to say. Bucky didn’t much like talking about run-ins, but Steve wanted to make sure he was okay.  
  
“We need to head to the Skyliners,” Bucky muttered, picking out things that were important and ignoring the rest.  
  
He watched Steve freeze, turned a horrified look towards him and deftly shake his head.  
  
“We can’t stay here anymore, Steve. There are more and more of those soldiers posing as us. There are people going missing every damn minute. It isn’t safe anymore. Today they…herded me and tried to kill you. We need to escape.”  
  
Bucky didn’t want to explain to Steve how he was more afraid that they’d kill Steve because he was weak than he was afraid of being taken for being strong.  
  
“I can’t…” Steve started, his wide eyes leaking the smallest trail of tears, carving tracks down his smudged face.  
  
_Don’t say_ can’t _Steven. You mustn’t tell yourself things that aren’t true._  
  
He hated when his mother’s voice haunted him in moments when he had to face her memory.  
  
“Why, Steve? They’ll torture us, they’ll rape us and they will destroy us all while laughing. They don’t care about us. They’re going to take me and they will kill you and I promised I would keep us safe. I will not break that. We need to escape. I have a plan…”  
  
“Before…before I came to the slums, my mom and I, we lived in the Skyliners. A crumbling hunk of junk that was off limits. We would be killed onsite if we were spotted. It’s where she died. The ground…it was too frozen, I couldn’t bury her. I couldn’t even lift her to get here there.”  
  
Bucky swallowed, clenching his jaw. He’d never seen Steve shake like he was. They had shared many cold nights and terrifying moments, but this was a whole different level.  
  
“We aren’t allowed to bury our dead. They have to go to the city building for burning.”  
  
Steve reached up, wiping at his forehead in an anxious tic, “I promised her. I swore. We had a hidden garden just outside the city zone. She wanted to be there to…to be…and I couldn’t…I tried to drag her and I wasn’t strong enough…”  
  
Bucky stepped forward, grabbing the back of Steve’s neck and pulling him forward. Steve latched on the back of Bucky’s shirt with a fierce grip, shaking still. Bucky coaxed a hand through his greasy blond hair, the same hand that was just used to kill someone was now being used to sooth Steve. His hands seemed to work only for Steve, to serve him.  
  
They worshipped him.  
  
“Okay. Okay Stevie. We won’t go.” He pulled back and took him by the shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. They were still the only color in this bleak world and Bucky looked to them for comfort and Steve would never know. “We can’t stay here, okay? We need to move, but we won’t go to the Skyliners. We’ll go anywhere but there, I swear, but we need to leave.”  
  
Steve nodded, swiping at his face and looking down before stepping back out of Bucky’s reach and grabbing his things. They made sure every weapon they had was concealed, tied up their packs and slung them on. Both were fashioned like a sash, coming across their chests and keeping their things close to their hearts. Bucky would always say if they managed to get that close to your heart you wouldn’t be alive long enough to fight to get your things back.  
  
It was darker outside than usual. The cloud coverage overhead winked out the natural lights that usually gave some semblance of sight. They used it to their advantage. Bucky eased back against the cratered siding of their meetup spot, his hand searching in between the two of them for Steve’s hand and finding his quickly. Bucky gave it a small tug, urging Steve closer while their eyes adjusted to the darkness. After a few minutes, Bucky gave a light squeeze and they set off. They stepped lightly and did their best to conceal their huffing by muffling the noises in their shirts. Being out past curfew would mean a good beating if they were lucky and without knowing where they were headed, it seemed more and more likely they were simply running towards patrols. Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d survive another bashing, that was for sure.  
  
Several times Bucky or Steve would yank the other closer, stopped in their tracks and ducking into small spaces in between shanties or behind garbage piles. Once, Bucky lifted the siding away and shoved Steve inside a living space. Someone was startled awake and Bucky was over him in a flash with his hand on his mouth and whispering words Steve didn’t understand. He had heard him speaking this other language a few times throughout the years. He had called it Russian and said it was the language of his mother’s people. He had told Steve, generations before they had come to America for something better and instead getting trapped in hell. Even though other languages were strictly barred, Bucky practiced in secret and spoke it to others often. Steve was a slow learner and with teaching times scarce and dangerous, he didn’t get a lot of learning time.  
  
The man reached up and patted Bucky’s hand and he withdrew, taking a few steps back to stand next to Steve. The pair exchanged a few more words which Steve could only make out two. Stay and Safe. Steve wasn’t sure if they were staying or going to be on the move again.  
  
“We’ll stay here. Abram has a place for us for the time being until we figure out where to go.”  
  
Steve nodded, his ears listening to Bucky but his eyes following the older man. If he had stuck with anything he had learned, it was to always take in the people around you. He wanted to look to Bucky and ask what happened to him, apologize for what had happened and thanking him a million times over for being there when he needed him. Again.  
  
The man made quiet steps and hushed worked as he moved around shotty floorboards. Steve was amazed to find a decent sized place under the shack. A hideout. It was nearly impossible to find, in fact Steve had only heard of one in his entire time here, and that was only as the patrol was stringing up the owners by their throats as a warning to the rest. Steve and Bucky made their way over and stepped down into the hole, sitting with their backs against the frozen dirt wall. Abram handed a few spare matches down to Bucky and a small dented container before he began covering the hole again. They stayed silent, watching as they were slowly hidden beneath the floor boards and then a few things of ragged cloth were spread over it. Abram moved a few things around and Steve was aware that the old man had left a part of the floorboards with the biggest gaps uncovered.  
  
Bucky must have noticed Steve’s face pinch, because he whispered to him, “It’s a sign of good faith, letting us breathe.”  
  
Steve smiled, turning to look for Bucky and finding a shadowy image. “Why’d he give you matches?”  
  
They were a precious commodity. It was very rare to come across one. Steve couldn’t imagine handing someone something that important. “How does he have those to spare?”  
  
Steve felt Bucky shrug, “Having contraband like this here, it’s too dangerous. It’s best to give it to someone who will leave. He’s too old and because of that, they’d notice him missing.”  
  
“Yeah, guy that age has seen a lot, I bet.”  
  
Bucky nodded, relaxing as he reached over a pushed Steve’s head to rest against his shoulder. Abram was some age past forty, which was so rare he was often stared at. Most who had made it to thirty had done so by the skin of their teeth. You either become a soldier or die surviving. Seventeen was a precarious age, Bucky knew. If they didn’t have a reason to leave now, they’d find one soon enough. Knowing some dirty solider had Steve pressed against a wall while he touched where he wanted, ignoring Steve’s whimpers, was reason enough. If he ran into that fucker again he’d slit his throat. He’d rather disappear with Steve than die without him. Bucky shifted slightly and pressed their sides together.  
  
Bucky gave the container a small shake and smiled, “Water.”  
  
Bucky wiggled the cap off before swallowing a mouthful and handing it over to Steve who managed to find it in the dark.  
  
“Did you even get any?” Steve asked, shaking the bottle.  
  
“Take a drink now, save the rest for tomorrow.”  
  
Steve nodded against his shoulder, straightened to take a drink and then leaned his head back down, “You think you can even sleep?”  
  
Bucky rested his cheek atop Steve’s head, “I’ll know in a minute.”  
  
“About today…”  
  
Bucky reached out blindly and rested his hand somewhere on Steve’s leg and he felt his hand rest atop his.  
  
“It’s alright Steve. You just have to remember to question everything. Your hunger was clouding your judgement is all.”  
  
Steve tried to swallow the guilty feeling that climbed uncomfortably up his throat, easing the hunger pains that were settling in his stomach.  
  
“Thank you,” Steve said. _For saving me_ , Steve thought.  
  
“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eye lids had grown heavy. He turned his hand over and grabbed hold of Steve’s hand. _Always_ , Bucky thought.  
  
Steve’s breathing slowed as his fingers laced with Bucky’s and as Bucky drifted to sleep so swiftly, he had the blurred reminder.  
  
_Question everything._  
  
Before his brain could process his error, he was already pulled under to a blissfully restless sleep.


	3. Question Everything - Part II

It was cold when Bucky woke.  
  
The type of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your body tremble. It was the cold that made his joints stiffen and his teeth chatter. The cold wasn’t bad when someone was by your side, huddled together and you living off each other’s heat barely holding on to a semblance of warmth. Yet Bucky woke, not with a jolt like usual, but with a slow crawl from the depths of unconsciousness. It should have been his first clue, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate enough to produce a coherent thought. He didn’t feel a small heap pressed to his side like he had for the years that had passed since finding Steve. He was not awoken to the alertness he possessed with the dire need to protect not just yourself, but someone else.  
  
_The water_ …  
  
Bile rose up in his throat at the thought.  
  
Abram had been someone he had trusted for a while. Someone whom he had met and acquainted himself with and occasionally relied on. They traded favors and goods. The exchanged illegal words. When Bucky had found himself all alone, Abram had taken him in while he got on his feet. The bastard had tricked him and turned on him. Everyone was for themselves and nothing more. Bucky had been naïve and blind. Steve had questioned the kind gesture of water and matches and Bucky thought nothing of it. The bastard drugged him and turned him over to the soldiers and for what? Probably stupid, inconsequential shit. His life was probably worth a couple loafs of bread and a blanket.  
  
His mind drifts back to Steve, wondering where he is and what was happening to him. Is he hurt? Is he scared? Is he cold? Bucky is so damn cold. He gathered himself enough to realize why he was so cold. He had been stripped bare, thrown into a room of concreate and blank walls. It sucked in the cold and breathed it against his flesh. His slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, his body desperately wanting to curl into a ball and quake.  
Bucky’s hands slid over the flesh of his arms, to his stomach and down his legs. His fingers only finding exposed skin. His heart hammered as his fingers never find a weapon. All of them. Every extension of his hands that saved himself countless times. They defended Steve so many more. His life usually depended upon some sharp instrument he could strap to his body. Now he was bare, exposed and vulnerable. It made his heart race like a scared animal realizing they were being backed into a corner.  
  
He tried to press himself as close to a ball as possible, trying to gain some warmth, but his body shivered involuntarily. His eyes focused enough that he realized there was another man across from him. He was already curled in on himself, his eyes gleaming through a curtain of greasy hair, just as bare as Bucky. This man didn’t tremble from the cold and that unnerved Bucky. It was your body’s natural way of trying to warm itself. This man sat like stone as if he was ready and willing to freeze to death.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there for, huddled into lumps of bare flesh straining not to move and graze freezing concreate that hadn’t been warmed by their bodies. Bucky realized this man wasn’t going to move for the sheer fact of preserving body heat and energy, because that’s what he himself was doing. He let his eyes drift away from the man to glance around the room.  
  
The lighting was dim and it smelled of mold. There was a drain in the middle of the room that wasn’t even big enough to get his hand down. There were no windows and only one door. He had to assess if the risk was worth it and to see if he had any chance, but deep down he knew it wasn’t possible. This man across from him would have already been gone. Bucky could see this guy was a person who survived and most likely did anything to do so.  
He noticed a few dark stains that seemed burned into the hard floor and with a sinking feeling he realized it was old blood. It was no small amount either. The drain, the single door and the stains painted a picture detailed enough for Bucky.  
  
Just when he was about to unwind his arms from around his legs to check the door and size up the security, the door began to open.  
  
The grinding of metal sliding against metal made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand, but he refused to flinch. He watched as the door swung open and in walked a higher-ranking officer. He had more stripes on his shoulder than the others and two extra pins on his lapels. His sleeve cuffs had gold stitching to signify that not only was he high in the government and their army, but he was considered to be essential.  
  
His hair was combed back from his face. A clean haircut also showed off how wealthy someone was and it was clear this man was dripping money and authority.  
  
His eyes were cold as he looked between the two with his lips pulling into a sneer.  
  
Bucky knew Brock Rumlow. There weren’t many people who didn’t at this point. He climbed his way from a ruddy little street crawler to Johann Schmidt’s bitch. He was the first soldier to try to talk Bucky into coming to work for Schmidt. He was the first soldier Bucky ever punched. He was the first soldier to realize that Bucky would literally do anything for Steve. Bucky used to have nightmares about all the firsts. He hadn’t in a long time, in fact. The flashback came unbidden to him, flooding his senses at seeing him.  
  
He remembers Steve crying, his tiny little body shaking with a knife pressed to his throat. Rumlow ordered some underling soldier to take Steve and Bucky still remembered how it made his ears ring. He turned to look at Steve and his eyes were so big and helpless and scared. Bucky remembered how those startling blue eyes screamed HELP but his lips were pressed together and trembled, his chin help up and wobbly.  
Rumlow had the smuggest look on his face, walking around Bucky and talking in his ear.  
  
“I bet when you fuck him he makes the sweetest little noises,” Brock had taunted. “I wonder if he’d make the same noises for me.”  
  
Bucky remembers turning and he remembers the gratification that came from landing a punch square on his nose. He remembers taking a hit to the back of the head by some soldier. He remembers Brock kicking him and that was the first time Bucky had ever broken ribs. It had hurt for so long to breathe. He remembered being curled on the ground, coughing, wondering if this was what Steve felt like when his lungs stopped listening. His head shot up, looking around, looking for Steve.  
  
Rumlow had grabbed a fistful of hair, stooping down to glare at him. “Well, now I’m not going to need Steven anymore, James. If you want your little piece of shit back, you’re going to have to make those pretty little noises for me.”  
Bucky is giving Brock the worst look he can muster, but it seems as if nothing can touch him. Rumlow smiled knowingly at him, but begins to address both men as if he is talking to a room full of people, crying out for showmanship with no one to give a damn.  
  
“You have been selected. But only one of you will be leaving this room. Only one of you will get to become a soldier.”  
  
Bucky tasted the tang of copper across his tongue and realized he was biting his lip to stop himself from commenting. Let this stranger in front of him have it. Bucky would rather die than serve Schmidt and the damned government. He only served one man and Steve Rogers was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“The winner will also get a hot shower and food. Fresh food. Officer food – not rations.”  
  
Bucky’s stomach twisted with the thought of warm food.  
  
Brock looked at the two men, turned and dragged the door shut behind him as he exited without more preamble.  
  
Bucky and the man make eye contact again. Bucky watches as his dark brown eyes search his face and then his body and then flick to the door. He’s sizing up the situation. Bucky has to resist the urge to crack his knuckles and get up and get into the best fighting position he’s got.  
  
“We split,” The man says gruffly. “I don’t care about the shower.”  
  
Bucky can’t tell if this man is faking him out and trying to get his guard down.  
  
They turn towards the door again and the curl of Brock’s lips makes Bucky’s stomach churn uncomfortably. He’s never been able to correlate that smirk with anything good. Rape, beatings, torture – those came with that look. If Bucky had anything in his stomach he might have thrown it up right then and there.  
  
“I forgot to mention…” Brock said, his hand on the handle of the door and not three steps in the room. “Only one person can leave here alive. You have a limited amount of time before you’re both executed, how much time, you can always wait and see. Of course, I hate boring, so I invited some friends. Steven and Laura are here.”  
  
Bucky’s body went still and his heart beat so hard it felt uncomfortable. Was Steve okay? Who was Laura?  
  
“The winner will take their partner and start their new lives in the ranks of HYDRA. If you both choose to lose, you both die, and Laura and Steven get to both spend quality time with the ranks of HYDRA as the soldiers see fit. If there is only one loser – and you know, I bet there will be – the loser’s partner not only gets to watch everything, but they get to reap the benefits of your loss.”  
  
Bucky felt his lungs shrinking, his breaths coming in small little hyper gasps. He knew what Brock was planning. He felt like he was barely holding on to a thread of hope with Brock Rumlow laughing at him as he tugged it from his grasp.  
  
“You lose and they lose. I was thinking about maybe having them die with you,” Brock looks at Bucky at this point as if predicting he would lose. “But that would motivate no one. So, Steven…or Laura, will get to spend a very _special_ month with me.”  
  
Brock Rumlow seemed to live off of fear and pain and hate. People suffering seemed to bring him joy.  
  
He pulled his hand out of his coat pocket, withdrawing a vicious looking blade that he had been concealing. It looked new and polished and sharp. It seemed to whisper to death to call him forth.  
  
“To help you along…” He said, tossing it towards the center of the cell.  
  
He turned, grabbing at the door and clanging it shut behind him, the sound echoing around Bucky’s skull with each thud matching his racing heart.  
  
They two men locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. If Bucky had time to agonize over the moment, he could see pure fear and stripped desperation.  
  
Yet Bucky could only see bright blue eyes and perfect golden hair and could hear Steve laughing and then it was all gone.  
  
The two shot up from their positions on the floor, Bucky’s body jolting awake with adrenaline. Yet it only took that one second for Bucky to realize he would not reach the weapon first. This man was taller, his legs longer, his muscles stronger. He would get their first. Bucky had only a breath of a second to switch from an offensive stand point to a defensive one. It was not enough.  
  
The man reached the knife first, scooping down and snatching it from the floor in one fluid motion. Bucky had enough time to stop and bend backwards when the knife swung. He twisted left, listening to the blade cut through the air with a hiss. He raised his right arm, his forearm meeting with the forward motion attack and the mans arm, stopping the blade from driving through his eye. It gave him a moment to suck in a breath.  
  
The man pulled back and swung harshly, Bucky brought his arm up to take the hit once more, their limbs clashing in a harsh hit. He ignored the pain that reverberated up to his shoulder and let the moment take him. This was his life and he could not afford the luxury of feeling. He played with fear as it nipped at his heels, making his feet move and his hands block and his heart pound. There was a sting as the blade caught his arm and it made Bucky jerk, a slight falter in their dance that was used against him.  
  
A small flinch turned the tables.  
  
The man flipped the blade in his hand, gripping the handle in a fist and driving the blade home. It dug in and let loose blood and agony. Bucky screamed a harsh sound, ripped from his throat. A warmth instantly turned into a burning fire. He could feel the knife handle pressed up against his shoulder and he knew that warmth had to be his own blood. This man looked through him like nothing and this knife swept through tissue like a hand passing through air. The man tried to press the blade forward and Bucky had to cling to his thoughts to stop himself from blacking out. This knife had to be all the way through him at this point, tasting fresh air on the other side. This was a pain he had never felt before. Was this man cutting his arm from his body?  
  
Surely that was the only thing that could cause this pain. He reached forward with his right hand, digging his fingers into his opponent’s eye to catch him off guard. Bucky used this to his best advantage. He pushed against the pain and against the handle and pressed this man back until his heels tapped the wall. The man pulled back some, slicing more flesh and making Bucky cry out. Bucky’s right hand was still clinging to his face, but he pressed his thumb to this man’s eye socket. He tried to turn away, tried to thrash his head while still clinging to the weapon that was lodged in Bucky’s arm. The man pressed it forward again, trying to make Bucky stop from the pain as he dug down into Bucky’s arm, flaying the skin and mutilating the appendage. He twisted the handle roughly and Bucky screamed, pressing his thumb in with the pain fueling him.  
  
If this man wouldn’t let go then Bucky would take him down with him. His thumb felt the swell of the eyeball against the pad, the pressure building with the volumes of their screams. There was a pop, audible even about the screams. Bucky felt blood splash into his opened mouth and he didn’t even have the sense enough to gag or spit. He grit his teeth and pressed his thumb down, wading through the blood and ruptured eyeball. Finally this man’s grip on the knife handle loosened.  
  
Then Bucky took the upper hand.  
  
Bucky retracted his thumb and moved his hand and reached over, grabbing this man’s wrist and digging in his nails, pressing through a slick of blood. He twisted, feeling this man bend with him. He dropped back on his weight baring leg, pivoted his hips, and pulled. The man’s fingers slipped from the handle and Bucky changed his movement again. Instead of following through with the flip over his shoulder, he dropped to one knee and kicked out with the other, causing the man to jump to avoid his legs getting swept.  
  
Bucky did the only thing he could think of to give himself the upper hand with the moment he bought and he couldn’t spare it a moment’s thought. He reached up with his right hand, grabbed the handle of the blade and yanked out. It was incredible how much pain a man can chase when his life was on the line. He could take on death if he needed to. For Steve.  
  
His world tilted sideways but he didn’t let that hold him and bring him down. Just as this man was getting his footing back, Bucky had swung wildly and unpredictably, causing the man to stumble to get his back away from the wall, tripping over his feet to scurry away. He swung again, making him retreat. He swung once more and was met with resistance of a block.  
  
The blood slicked knife dropped.  
  
They threw punches and knees and kicks and elbows. It was a mess of harsh breathing and limbs battling limbs and blood. There was too much blood for them to be moving still. It was hard to tell who was covered in whose blood. Bucky found himself pressed against the wall with fingers snaking around his neck and he pulled up his knee, ramming it into the man’s stomach and stunning him. He drew up his knee up again and this time brought up his foot and kicked out, making the man stumble back and fall against the wall where he started.  
  
They were back where they had begun; locking eyes and racing towards death’s open arms.  
  
The two men sprang from the wall at the same time, pushing off the concreate wall and plowing towards the bloodied knife in the center of the room. Bucky went in at a dive, grabbing at the knife and rolling up off his hip and turning, his knee scraping against the concrete floor and ripping open his skin. He barely felt it to the pain that was his shoulder. His left arm was aflame and dousing his body with unbridled adrenaline. His front and back were doused in blood. His own blood, mostly. The loss was making his head foggy. He twisted the handle in his right palm, flipping the spine of the blade to rest against his forearm for support. He righted himself on both feet, sizing up his opponent who had his hands raised up to his chest in a surrendering motion. It looked less like surrendering and more like pleading as he was splashed with Bucky’s blood. It looked more desolate with a hole in his face where his eye once was, red painted across him as if he bathed in it. Membrane and chucks of tissue were hanging limply from the socket where the eye used to be. Bucky took the calm moment to size up his opponent and conjure his next move.  
  
His opponent used it to talk.  
  
“Is Steve you brother?” The man asked, the hole oozing with the movement of his lips.  
  
Bucky faltered, still coiled tight to launch at this man and take his life. He couldn’t think about it, he had to just do it. His brain was getting sluggish with blood loss. His vision was blurring and fading.  
  
“No.”  
  
Why was he talking? Why was he indulging in this conversation? Was it pity? This man, his Laura, would meet the worst fate. Steve couldn’t take her place. He was ready to die trying and even in death he swore he would do something. Anything. Rumlow could not get his hands on Steve.  
  
“Laura is my partner,” The man said, his hands slowly lowering, making Bucky grip the knife handle tighter. “We have a child.”  
  
Steve, the fucking martyr, would have slit his own throat right then and there. He wouldn’t subject a mother to giving up their child and living a month in hell. The realization made Bucky’s mind stop short. Would Steve hand Bucky over to save an innocent person? Never. Without a doubt. Steve would also never let Bucky forget it if he killed a man and tossed away two other lives just to procure his, either. He gave his head a small shake. This man was doing this on purpose. Bucky shouldn’t have answered. He shouldn’t have listened. He should just attack.  
  
So he does.  
  
He lunges, his left hand feinting a punch before he swings the knife in his right with the support of his braced arm. The man wasn’t new to the arrangement of fighting. He took the punch straight to the jaw- not that it could be much and the pain making Bucky nearly pass out, and this man had his arm come up and take the knife straight to his hand. The pain made Bucky’s left arm falter and he pressed harder with his right, refusing to show this injury as a weakness. This man would fear what he created. An injured monster with no more options left.  
  
Warmth sprayed against Bucky as the man gritted a scream out between clenched teeth. The back of his hand was pressed to his throat where he blocked Bucky’s target. Bucky pressed down, feeling tendons pop with the pressure and sharpness of the blade, letting it glide through muscle like careless water. He felt it sink and stop, his grip slick being coated in hot blood, but he refused to slip. His mind was screaming at him.  
  
_DON’T STOP._  
_  
YOU’LL DIE._  
_  
STEVE WILL DIE._  
  
He leaned his weight harder on the blade, pressing in a forward motion and his brain barely processed the sawing of metal as the knife tried to grind through bone. He screamed with the other man now, trying to drowned out the feeling and the sound of this massacre in front of him. He felt no pain in that moment. He took no life. He was doing what he had always done and that was surviving.  
  
The man was pressing his free hand to Bucky’s throat now, barely able to grasp his neck through the blood, his fingers finding no grip. Whose blood was it now? Bucky pulled his face back slightly, listening to the bone splinter under the pressure. Each moment of pressure had a crack ripple through the air, telling them the bone would break come time. The screaming grew louder, the man’s fingers tried to press Bucky’s airway desperately, scraping at the skin for purchase and only finding an oil slick of blood.  
  
With a loud, sudden crack, the bones were broken through. The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. The knife sank through the last layer of flesh in his hand and Bucky let out one last raspy scream as he pressed the blade into the man’s throat. He tried to make it as quick as possible. This guy already suffered physically. The last thought he probably had was this strange man cutting his hand in two was letting his wife and child trudge into hell without a spot of remorse. Bucky would forego honor to insure Steve was safe.  
  
The gurgling started for the briefest of seconds, the man’s dark chocolate eyes finding Bucky’s and then the light faded out of them. Just like that and he was gone. No grand exit. No moment to say his peace. Gone.  
Bucky felt the knife hit bone again and he snapped his hand back, tumbling backwards and trying to catch himself, only to buckle under his own pain. His head smacked back against the concreate, making stars pop in his eye sight.  
  
He was panting so desperately, trying to fill his lungs with as much oxygen as possible. They burned with need making his eyes water. Or maybe that was the pain. It felt like his body was being wrapped in this pain. He lost feeling to his left arm. He had to turn to see that it was still there, a bloody mess with mutilated flesh and so much damn blood.  
  
The door screamed it’s opening as Brock made his resurgence. Bucky’s eyes flicked up to him, barely making out his form and finding only the smug smirk that crossed his lips. Fuck him.  
He paused, his head turning away and most likely taking in the body Bucky had undone. His smirk grew to a smile and he stepped over towards Bucky.  
  
He crouched low, his face so close to his, Bucky wished he had the strength to move away.  
  
“All that work, Barnes. And for what?”  
  
_Steve_ , his brain supplied.  
  
“Your boy is dead,” Brock said gently, as if talking to a small child, his voice exuding joy of cutting Bucky through to his very soul.  
  
Bucky managed out a squeak of protest, trying to have his lips and tongue form words, but nothing worked anymore.  
  
Brock stood, letting out the smallest disappointed sigh, raising his boot to hover over Bucky’s shoulder. Before he could even manage the thought of scooting away, Brock stamped down. He leaned forward on his knee, crossing his arms and relishing in the sound of Bucky’s screams as he pressed his weight on his injury.  
  
Blackness reached up from under him, wrapped its greedy hands around his mouth and swallowed him whole.

* * *

  
When the bleak land of unconsciousness spits Bucky back out, he found himself shattered into a thousand pieces.  
  
Pain was all he knew when his thoughts found him. It was beyond anything he had ever felt. It made him want to swim down, down, _down_ below the level of thought and prayer. He wanted to drown and suffocate and never come back to this.  
  
_Your boy is dead_.  
  
Let death grip him, embrace him and hold him tight and ferry him off from the plain of existence. If all he would ever have was pain and loss, he didn’t need to wake. All those times he berated himself to go on, to continue, to keep one damn foot moving in front of the other were pointless. He had fought for what he wanted and what he truly needed. It was for naught.  
  
Steve was dead.  
  
A blinding light met his eyes and he seemed to relax in his pain. Finally he could pass over from this nightmare and wake in a new world. But the light faded.  
  
“The work will be extensive,” He heard. Bucky didn’t know this voice.  
  
“When can the conditioning begin?” That was Rumlow. Bucky was coming alive with hate. Fuck the other side. He needed Brock Rumlow’s blood on his hands. He needed his heart stopping under his fingertips. He needed to watch the light leave his eyes before he could find peace.  
  
That was the light Bucky wanted.  
  
“As soon as we attach the arm, you can begin.”  
  
He felt a strong burning sensation in his right arm, his eyelids commanding to be closed. The voices of those around him turned to whispers, to white noise, and then finally to silence.  
  
Bucky dreams of Steve.

* * *

  
Steve woke to the brightness of the sun searing through his eyelids. He blinked at the bright red spots blooming in his vision as he tried to wake properly. He turned his head away from the burn in his eyes and felt his nose graze dirt. He heard people walk past him with hurried hushes. He felt the chill lick at his body as it rushed through the air. His hands and feet were numb from the exposure to the cold. His body ached and was stiff.  
  
His thoughts came to him slowly and in a jumbled blur. He pictured the floorboards above his head, the scrape on Bucky’s cheek, the puddle of blood the soldier had choked up. His mom, frozen in time, her eyes staring at nothing. Bucky grabbing the front of his shirt and shoving him against a wall, his fist raised and his eyes blazing. A man being shot in front of him. His stomach turning in on itself from hunger. Bucky handing him food and water. Bucky’s fierce blue eyes, harsh as the cold until they were trained on Steve.  
  
He blinked, trying to gulp in a solid breath of air.  
  
Slowly he collected himself, managing to sit up to be confronted with an ache in his head. He couldn’t latch on to a single thought or memory now, they were slipping through his fingers like water.  
He looked around in hopes to come to his senses. He was near the point where the rations line would be. Sometimes Steve or Bucky would stand in line alone, letting the other sit in the shade and drift off. With so many soldiers about, no one thought about attacking or robbing anyone. It was, ironically enough, the safest time to sleep.  
  
Yet by the way the sun hung in the air, bright and unforgiving, Steve knew the time for rations had passed. No queue was in front of him and no clusters of soldiers.  
  
He yelped at a sharp pain in his leg, his attention focusing on a boot that happened to be attached to a solider.  
  
“Name and identifier. Stand, for fucks sake.”  
  
Steve did as he was instructed, his head swimming as he stood. He nearly pitched over but he leaned against the wall. He yanked his sleeve up and showed his wrist to the soldier.  
  
“Steven Grant Rogers.”  
  
The soldier was silent as his eyes drifted over the screen and Steve had another uncomfortable feeling settle in his stomach. His brain tried to tie everything together for him and only produced a throbbing pain in his head.  
  
“No loitering. Move along,” The soldier said stiffly without making eye contact and then walked off.  
  
Steve was stunned. His mouth was hanging open, even. He had never, in his entire life around soldiers, had such a quick and peaceful confrontation. He expected hours to be dished out in the city crematorium at least, sifting through ashes and separating the remaining bones. A beating and hours was the most probable. His eyes followed the soldier as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.  
  
Steve looked down and around his feet, only finding a metal container with a cap. His brows furrowed, his mind telling him this was a memory but not being able to place it. He bent down and picked it up, gave it a shake and listened to the water slosh inside.  
  
His brain finally remembered.  
  
He had been with Bucky in someone’s house. Whose was it? They were put in a hiding hole – they were so rare – and they were given water. Bucky had spoken Russian. They had drank water and fallen asleep right away. Were they exhausted? They had to be, their day killing and running from soldiers was draining. Abram. That was a name. Abram was the man that gave them shelter, he was the oldest guy in his sector.  
  
Click. Click. _Click_.  
  
All the memories fit.  
  
Steve turned on his heel and walked as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself. He needed to get to Bucky and figure out why they were separated. Abram’s shack wasn’t far from where Steve was now and it took him only a few short minutes to round the corner to find Abram’s house. It was being stripped apart by soldiers and Abram himself was nowhere to be seen. Steve half expected him to be strung up by his neck, but to his surprise, the hole was filled.  
  
Steve’s brow furrowed.  
  
Click.  
  
This didn’t make any sense. He looked around, trying to find a familiar face but only just realizing that there were more soldiers surrounding him than he’d ever seen in his entire life.  
  
Click.  
  
His brain was trying desperately to make sense, but it couldn’t make everything come together. They had run, they had ended up at Abram’s. They drank water. They went to sleep. They woke…  
  
Click. Click. _Click_.  
  
“The water…” He said only to himself. _He drugged us. He turned on us_. Us. _Bucky. Where is Bucky_?  
  
Steve began looking around frantically, his heart hammering in his tiny chest and threatening to break out.  
  
Steve is looking around frantically, nearly spinning on the spot and about to rip the ground up to find Bucky. They were here. They were just here. They were safe. They finally had the push to leave. They were ready to risk life and limb for each other and get the fuck out. Steve knew Bucky wouldn’t leave without him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Would he? Steve’s heart was slamming in his chest, his breaths short and pointless and painful. Did Bucky leave without him? Maybe he finally came to his senses, realizing Steve was such a burden. He would make the challenge of escaping damn near impossible. After all this time taking care of Steve, Bucky probably had enough. Steve’s stomach gave an uneasy turn and he proceeded to dry heave. He was gagging, his eyes watering and his stomach seizing uncomfortably. He heard someone shout at him. He couldn’t stop. He felt a sharp pain in his side and stumbled, spitting the bile taste in his mouth and trying to grab at his side. There was more yelling and this time the sharp pain exploded across his face. He stumbled back against something hard and cold and tried to recoil, but a soldier was in his face.  
  
“Your name and identifier. _Now_.”  
  
Steve’s eyes flick towards movement near the shack they had stayed in and his breath catches. Abram is there, dressed in a soldiers uniform overseeing the operation. Steve suddenly feels trapped and helpless and so damn scared.  
  
His eyes track Abram for a heartbeat before the man turns, meeting his eyes for the briefest of moments before turning back to the task. He’s directing the soldiers.  
  
Steve’s shirt is grabbed by the front and he’s knocked back against the building, the air left in his lungs getting sucked out at the force. A fist strikes him with a crack and then there is warmth flooding Steve’s face, so he knows he’s bleeding. He wasn’t cooperating with Soldiers and he will be lucky if more don’t join in on this beating. It already feels like five guys are wailing on him.  
  
He can’t keep up with all the hits but only the pain. He knows at this point he’s on the ground, desperately trying to protect his head and maybe curled into a ball. His vision is nearly swallowed by black and a pressure in his head threatens to make him pass out. Bucky is going to be pissed he got so hurt.  
  
“Are you going to comply?” The soldier growls. Steve knows he’s stopped hitting him, but with all the pain encasing his body he could swear he’s still getting a beating.  
  
“Name. Identifier.”  
  
Steve tried to part his lips that are coated in his own blood. The taste is seeping into his mouth. Before he can say the first syllable of his name, the darkness takes him.

* * *

Steve dreams about Bucky.  
  
They had just met up at the place they’re staying. Bucky’s got a split lip and a limp. Steve’s left eye is swollen shut and an ugly shade of purple. When Bucky steps in and sees him, his eyebrow raises and Steve shrugs back at him. Bucky came over and sat next to him, gingerly settling down on the floor and sighing when his back is finally resting against the wall. Steve had scooted closer so their sides pressed together. He reached up, swiping his thumb under Bucky’s lip while searching his face. Bucky’s eyes were dull, unfocused, looking towards his folded hands.  
  
“Buck?”  
  
Bucky turned his face, his blue eyes searching Steve’s swollen eye with a grim twist to his lips. He had leaned his face forward, resting his forehead against Steve’s.  
  
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” He whispered.  
  
“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he isn’t faced with Bucky and his warmth and his sadness. He has the sun glaring down on him, his body screaming in protest from simply existing. There is so much pain. He wanted to be swallowed up by unconsciousness again.  
  
He can feel himself moving, but his legs aren’t carrying him. His arms are pulled up over his head and something is wrapped around his wrists. The world scrapes his back and ass and legs in protest. His muddled mind tries to form a thought, tell him to move on his own, but the thought sends the pain on edge. His head pitches back limply and he’s faced with a terrible sight that makes his brain wake. Hands are wrapped around his wrists, the soldier that had been in his face was attached to those hands. His face is twisted up tight with anger or effort or both. Steve groaned as his vocal cords tried to press out a protest. His brain fumbles with a chain of thoughts. His body screams when the soldier drops him. Blackness crowds his vision. Pain is the only thing he knows.  
  
“You’ll want to be dead for this part…” The soldier muttered, raising his fist and crashing it down on Steve’s face.

* * *

Steve dreams about Bucky.  
  
It had been weeks after they met. They were still cautious around each other, but some sort of bond was forming. They had been on their way to the rations line. James had been shooting him glances all morning. Steve had fallen asleep at James’ little shanty and didn’t bother to wake him and make him go stay in his own that he had thanks to James. It seemed no one was cruel enough to submit someone the infraction of curfew breaking. The problem this caused was that Steve had horrible nightmares. He’d woken up with tears down his face, screaming his mother’s name like he could plead with death to give her back. James had been awake, giving Steve an alarmed look and blinking owlishly at him. Steve tried to hide his tears, tried to hide his shaking, tried to hide period. Yet James had simply come to settle in next to him, sitting with his back against the wall, only offering a few words.  
  
“I stopped sleeping because of the nightmares,” He had told Steve.  
  
They sat together, a foot between them of empty air and dead space as they waited for the sun to rise. Now they walked side by side to the ration lines.  
  
Someone had called out a “ _Bucky_ ”, causing James to glance over his shoulder.  
  
“I thought your name was James?”  
  
“M’ nick name is Bucky,” He replied, his shoulders jumping in a shrug. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you there.”  
  
Steve didn’t argue. He seemed like he knew everyone that ran around the streets. It was probably an acquaintance. Maybe a friend. Steve didn’t know him well enough to question it, so he gave a nod and went on ahead. Steve had just rounded the corner to the main road when he heard the harsh grunt. His brow furrowed, he stopped and turned, poking his head around the corner.  
  
Bucky was being held from behind, some other teen was laying blow after blow and it looked like Bucky was getting one over on him. His thrashing was dying down and with each punch more blood began leaking. Steve squared his shoulders, stooping down and drawing the knife Bucky had insisted he carried from his boot.  
  
He walked down the street with his shoulders squared, a hard look in his eye and his heart drumming a beat against his ribs with fury. They weren’t paying Steve any mind as he made his way down the alley. They had their sides to Steve and he switched the blade to his other hand and went in swinging. He landed a punch on the guy who had been landing all the punches, tumbling down after him. He pressed the knife to his throat, the guy had been stunned and then scared into stillness.  
  
Steve was quickly knocked in the back of his head and he tumbled forward off the guy, his knife skittering across the ground towards Bucky’s heaped body. He wasn’t moving. Steve couldn’t tell if he was breathing. A kick landed on his lower back and another to his ribs. A fist connected with his face and made white flare across his vision before the surrounding black began to press in on him. He flailed, he tried to swing and he cursed and grunted. For every blow he landed, the two others landed five.  
  
The hits stopped when one of the guys said, “Prowlers.”  
  
Street soldiers.  
  
He heard the two of them take calm steps down the street, going back the way they had come. Steve lifted his head, making his vision swim, and he caught sight of Bucky.  
  
The soldiers clicked their tongues as they walked by. They didn’t bother with them as they walked passed, most likely relieved they didn’t have to break up a fight. They’d probably come back soon and issue work if the they were still here. They’d claim they were loitering. Steve noticed his knife was gone with a sick feeling in his gut, knowing those two assholes ran off with it.  
  
Bucky was sitting up, his face a few different shades from blood red to blooming purple. One eye was swelling shut, his lip was split, his nose was still dripping blood. Steve sat up himself, reaching up and gently prodding his face. Of course his fingertips came away coated with blood.  
  
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Bucky slurred through swollen lips.  
  
Steve gave a painful lift to one shoulder, wincing, “Seemed a good idea at the time.”  
  
“I already told you, you don’t owe me.”  
  
Steve looked across to find Bucky trying his best to glare or maybe he was wincing. It was hard to tell at this point.  
  
“I heard you the first time.”  
  
Bucky was staring at Steve, his one good eye looking his face over before he looked down at his hands, letting out a small sigh. “Let’s go get our rations and clean up.”  
  
Steve remembered that they had to help each other stand, then lean on each other to walk.  
  
That had been the beginning.

* * *

  
When Steve woke, it was from the heat. It was sweltering. It was damn near blistering. His wrist felt like it had been ripped open. His body was yelling at him with the sheer thought of moving. He cracked his eyes open, mentally begging his body to comply.  
  
The smell was the next thing he noticed. He knew that smell. Every day right after rations were given and workers went in, smoke would fill the air. People would cast their eyes towards the clouds that came out in thick black plumes, pausing for the briefest moments. It was the city morgue burning all the bodies.  
  
Click.  
  
Steve raised his head to look around, trying to blink away the spots of black that tried to cover his vision and pull him back down with hands around his throat. He raised his wrist to see what was causing the pain. Surely, with this much, someone had taken his entire hand from the wrist up. Instead he found a large, bleeding and oozing burn. It had taken away skin. His identifying number was gone. It had been burned off.  
  
Click.  
  
The air itself stung every inch of him. It felt like the days when he’d be doing labor in the summer, the bright sun casting its glare on his pale flesh, making blisters kiss his skin in its wake for days on end. Pain on top of pain. He groaned. He coughed. Something was crawling into his nostrils, snaking its way down his throat and filling his lungs with burning pain. The fire of the sun was scratching from the inside of his chest, trying to escape.  
  
He groaned.  
  
Click. Click. _Click_.  
  
He was in the city incinerator. They burned off his number, signifying he was dead, and then they tossed him in. He was alive. He felt like death was chasing him, but he was alive.  
  
Don’t burn. Steve pleaded with himself. Get up.  
  
His muscles screamed, his head felt like it was cracking open and spilling out along the floor, baring his inner thoughts of pain. He groaned again, pressing his lungs to call out.  
  
_Let me live_.  
  
He heard movement, though he could only guess it was footsteps. He tried to make another sound, hoping with all hope that someone had heard him. He whimpered. Who in the hell would save him?  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Steve tried to blink. He didn’t form a word. Maybe he had thought it. It had been muffled, drowned by his pain.  
  
He felt someone touch his neck and he nearly whined from the shooting pain the touch caused, but he barely managed a wheeze. His ears were taking in so much. He could hear the crackle and pop and the roar of the fires. He heard a scuffing; maybe a shoe or a shifting body. Fingers dug under his arms and strong arms curled under his armpits and around his shoulders. For a split second he thought maybe it was Bucky. Then the pain snuffed out all conscious thought and shoved him under the blanket of darkness and tucked him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this monstrosity. I, of course, appreciate any comments or kudos you want to leave. I'm unsure when the next chapter will be ready since work has been so insane, but I'll edit this note when I'm sure. Thank you!  
> Find me on Tumblr @nevifail


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